The Assassins' Archives: Ginevra
by J. Tyler
Summary: Armed with foreknowledge and aided by a renegade cyborg, the Assassins of the Renaissance set out to fight the future. History will never be the same-literally. AU, begins mid-AC2.
1. And So It Begins

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from Assassin's Creed II, nor any of the material from Kage Baker's novels of The Company, and I am making no money off of this.

A/N: So it's been a while since I posted anything and the writing bug was biting. This is the result. I use elements from Kage Baker's novels of The Company, but it's not so much a crossover as a drop-in.

* * *

Florence, 1480. It is night, and Leonardo da Vinci is asleep when someone starts pounding on his door. He grunts, tries to ignore it, but his midnight caller persists, and finally da Vinci is forced to give in, light a taper, and stumble down the stairs. "Leonardo," a familiar voice whispers loudly.

"Ezio?" He opens the door. There stands his friend Ezio Auditore, holding a dripping bundle in his arms, partly swathed in his cape. It is obviously a body, and the liquid puddling on his floor is red.

"More trouble? Around the back..." While Leonardo is a vegetarian who often buys caged birds only to set them free and deplores the taking of human life, he accepts the different reality which is his assassin friend's life.

"No! She's still alive." Da Vinci holds the door and stands aside to let Ezio past.

"She?" Yes, those were a woman's skirts bunched up under Ezio's arm. "Shall I send for the doctor? He lives around the corner..."

"I think in this case that you will be more help than any physician." Ezio lays the unconscious woman down on a worktable and peels away his cape to reveal a small woman clad in a gown of light blue wool. Ominous splotches of blood darken the bodice. Her face is bruised and bloody too.

"Look." Ezio lifts her mangled hand, and for a moment da Vinci thinks her rings caught on something and came close to tearing off her fingers. Then he sees that the metallic glints in her flesh are not rings. They're her bones.

"My God," Leonardo breathes, although he is an atheist. Seizing her hand, he starts examining it. "It's not metal, not exactly-it's like ceramic, but not precisely-Who is she? What is she? What happened?"

"I don't know who or what she is," Ezio admits. "I was hoping you could tell me. As for what happened-it was an accident. I don't know why she's still alive. I stabbed her..."

"You did?" Leonardo turns his attention to the terrible stains on her bodice, reaches for shears, and starts to cut the dress off her.

"She startled me at the top of the Cathedral campanile, or we startled each other. I didn't know who or what she was-the blade was buried to the hilt before I knew. When I pulled it out-she fell from the top of the tower. I'm not a murderer, Leonardo. I have never wrongfully killed any human soul."

"I believe you." Stripping her fine cotton chemise away, da Vinci lays her torso bare. The configuration of her form was of no interest to him, not at the moment-not when there were such terrible bruises covering her ribcage-and then there was the hole, and the bloody bubbles that issued from it. "That has to have pierced the lung-how is she still alive?"

"How did she survive the fall?" Ezio counters. "Her skull should have shattered on the paving stones."

"All of her bones must be made of that strange material. The question is-is this a machine made to counterfeit a human being or a human being who is partly a machine?" Picking up a probe, he slips it into the wound, trying to judge the angle-and suddenly her hand grips his wrist with a strength that would have more than done justice to a full-grown man, not a small and wounded woman.

"Abstineas manum," she whispers. _Hands off._

"She speaks Latin!" da Vinci exclaims as Ezio helps him pry her fingers loose. "Quid est nomen tuum?" he asks her in that same language. _What is your name?_

She does not reply-she merely shudders, and stops breathing. "Dead?" Ezio asks.

Leonardo lays his hand on her heart. "Ye-No! Look!" The wound in her chest is scabbing over, her bruises are turning colors and fading out.

She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes.

From The Assassins' Archives. The Chronicles of Ginevra:

Once upon a time, in the year 2335, there was a company called Dr. Zeus...

I don't know why I'm writing this, or who I'm writing it for. No one else here speaks, reads or writes Cinema Standard, although I suppose if anyone could puzzle it out, Leonardo could. But he already knows as much as I could explain. Still...

Once upon a time, in the year 2335, there was a company called Dr. Zeus, which had discovered and developed two of the most astonishing and revolutionary technological miracles of all time-time travel and immortality. The only problem was that because of the cost involved, both in terms of money and suffering, these two wonders of the ages were for all practical purposes, useless. Traveling through time was painful, debilitating, and occasionally fatal, even with drugs to ease the shock, and the process by which someone could become immortal (not to mention eternally young, superhumanly fast and strong) only worked well on very small children, and not all of them at that. Even the parents who could afford it weren't exactly lining up to sign their infants up for it.

So, there Dr. Zeus' executives were, with these two amazing advances on their hands, not knowing what to do. Then someone suggested combining the two, and hey presto, they were in business. They started mining the past for all the things that were lost to time-extinct species, works of art, libraries of knowledge, fantastic treasures. But how? By secretly using the immortality process to create a workforce of cyborg slaves who never got old or sick or retired or had to be paid or left to have families. Sterile drones who labored away behind the scenes to save paintings from Savonarola's bonfires, to clip cuttings of rare plants which cured diseases that didn't even exist yet, anything and everything you can imagine.

Everyone connected to Dr. Zeus got very, very rich.

Everybody mortal, that is.

But where did they get the children from to make into their immortal cyborg workforce? Anywhere there was an unwanted or orphaned child who fit the morphogenetic profile. From dung heaps and battlefields and plague-struck villages.

That was where they found me, in a small village in Tuscany, the only human being left alive in a peasant's hovel, a baby only a few months old. It was 1432 then. Instead leaving me to die slowly of hunger and thirst, they plucked me from my cradle and turned me into one of them.

So who am I, the person writing this? I'm Ginevra. I am smallish with dark hair and eyes, and pleasantly plump in a way that promises to become dumpy given time, pasta and a few pregnancies (lucky for me that I'm an immortal with an optimized metabolism and can't have children. That's sarcasm, by the way.). Neither especially ugly nor particularly beautiful, I blend in perfectly with the indigenous population of Italy, which is the point.

Dr. Zeus trained me up to be an Art Preservationist, which duty I fulfilled diligently for nearly nine hundred years. By then, pretty much everything that needed to be saved and preserved and conserved had been rescued, reconstructed, and cleaned up neatly, and there wasn't a whole lot left for me to do. Plus 2355, the year beyond which no timetraveler can go and no history is known of, was fast approaching. That's when supposedly all of us slaves will be set free and all the work we have done will be made known, when we can come out into the light and share in the brave new world we've created.

Yeah, right.

By then, a lot of the people I had met-by which I mean other cyborgs-had fallen off the map somehow. Of course you lose track of people over time, and in nine hundred years, you get to meet a lot of people, so 'lot' is relative. But these people weren't just off somewhere in the hinterlands doing fieldwork, they were missing. Which isn't supposed to be possible. We were supposed to be immortal and indestructible (but not invulnerable. We can be injured and we do feel pain.). No matter how badly we're hurt, even if our ferroceramic bones are bare of flesh and sinew, we are designed to regenerate fully.

Some of those missing people were very good friends. A couple of them were former lovers, in a friendly way.

I was starting to edge out of simple worry into active fear for those I'd lost when I was reassigned to go back to fifteenth century Italy. To Florence, in fact, where I had somehow never been when I lived through that era first. It was a plum posting, the sort that rarely come one's way-saving artwork from Savonarola's bonfires. I was going to arrive several years before the fact to do groundwork. Afterward, I would live all those years forward again, which suited me just fine.

It seemed to me that the twenty-fourth century was not the safest place for those of our kind. Also it was just so damn boring. The food was tasteless, the mortals listless, the environment devastated, the entertainment emasculated... Worst of all, what art was still being made didn't need me to preserve it.

So I jumped at the chance to go back in time. At my age, you'd think I would know better than to trust Dr. Zeus, but I did, and now I think I've become one of the missing.

I went back in time, all right. I even went to fifteenth century Florence. The Florence I wound up in is a Florence without Dr. Zeus, and in all the time I've been here, I haven't come across another operative from Dr. Zeus, mortal or immortal. Instead, I'm embroiled in a conflict between two secret societies, the Assassins and the Templars, who are fighting over the possession of an artifact which may be the original Apple stolen from the Garden of Eden. Or maybe it's the product of an advanced civilization that predates human existence. It might even be both. I'm on the side of the Assassins. In the process, I've done so many things, such as successfully treated Lorenzo de Medici's gout and arthritis, introduced antibiotics to the world several centuries early, not only provided Leonardo Da Vinci with more scientific knowledge than this century knows of, but gave him access to my credenza unit, a computer capable of synthesizing organic compounds and I don't even want to get into the business about Pompeii...

If this were my world, and Dr. Zeus caught up with me, I'd be in so much trouble Dante would have to come up with another circle of hell to describe my punishments. I've changed the course of recorded history, and that just isn't supposed to be possible.

But I am not sorry, and I do not apologize. I would do it all again in a heartbeat.

* * *

TBC, if anyone likes it. Or maybe even if they don't.


	2. Noli Me Tangere: Touch Me Not!

Traveling through time is not unlike...falling off the roof of a building. It's not the falling that hurts, it's the impact, and the further you fall, the greater that impact is. When our mortal masters have to do so, which is rarely and reluctantly, not only because of the impact but also because they have a hard time coping with the food, the lack of sanitation, and the culture shock in general, they travel in style and comfort, with nice cushioned seating, not to mention nice cushioning medication.

When we do so, it's in a packing crate. Literally. And you'd better have an empty stomach.

That was my first sign that something was wrong. When I arrived at Firenza Station, someone should have been there to uncrate me, welcome me, and provide orientation plus possibly also some nice cool mint tea. Instead I remained in my coffin until I felt well enough to punch my own way out, by which time I'd also noticed an uncanny silence. Not a physical silence, but a radio silence. Dr. Zeus builds wireless transmitters and recievers into our heads so we can communicate without the indigenous mortals catching on, and given the number of personnel who were assigned to Firenza during the Renaissance, there should have been plenty of chatter on the public frequencies. Once I got out of the crate, there was no question that I was not in Kansas anymore, Toto. That is a 20th century pop cultural reference which no one will get until 1939. Wait around for The Wizard of Oz, if you can. It's worth it.

The temporal transit station was in a forgotten catacomb under Santa Maria Novella, cleaned up and sanitized, and while this was the proper room-I accessed the cranial database and downloaded the information directly into my brain-it was full of dust, the smell of stale incense and the odor of several centuries old human remains. In fact, several cadavers were lying around in various imperfect states of preservation. Plus there were a couple of mortal guards on the watch for any trespassers, and they had orders to kill. The challenged me before they even caught a glimpse of me, although when they saw I was a woman, seemingly young and defenseless, they decided to 'enjoy' me first. While we undergo intensive mental conditioning to prevent us from hurting mortals, they also build in highly evolved self-preservation instincts to protect our very expensive selves. I rendered the guards unconscious with out much fuss and had a look around the chambers. There were moore old bodies and some odd machinery around, but it was the same place, although the secret exit led through an odd crypt with a statue of a man dressed in the style of King Xerses the First of Persia. Not the kind of thing you expect to find under Santa Maria Novella.

Before I went out, however, I went back to get my credenza. This essential item looked like the kind of cabinet an upper-middle-class fifteenth-century Italian woman might have in her bed chamber for personal items like a Book of Devotions, her hand mirror, a few trinkets, maybe a bundle of old love-letters and a box of sugared almonds. What it was, was a field unit composed of a computer and a formulary synthesizer for manufacturing various organic compounds as needed. Plus it had a basic medi-repair kit and my secret-five pounds of the finest high grade hybrid solid chocolate. _Theobroma cacao_ is the only substance which can give us even a mild buzz. Since it was not only a New World product and anachronistic seven ways from Sunday, but illegal in the so-Neopuritanical twenty-fourth century, I had to hide it. No way was I leaving that credenza anywhere that some mortal could stumble over it-even if it wouldn't open for anyone but me. Spotting a nice high ornamental balcony up by the ceiling, I did the Human Fly bit and scaled up there, only to find a pleasant surprise.

Someone else had the same idea sometime in the past-there was a small chest with two hundred florins in it. An artisan in 1480 Florence might earn fifty florins a year and a well-paid lawyer five hundred, so I would be well-situated for some time to come, if I were prudent. I transferred ten of the florins to my pouch and put the rest in the credenza. Judging from the thick furring of dust on the money chest, no one had disturbed it for at least twenty years and so my unit should be safe for a few hours or days.

Then I went out into a strange new world, not so much fifteenth-century Florence as a world without Dr. Zeus, without a Chief Facilitator to answer to or a security tech monitoring the continuous uplink transmission which ensures the company knows what we're saying and doing every single moment. For the first time in nearly a millennium, I was free...

...but I had no idea what to do with myself.

And let's face it, I didn't have a lot of options. For most of human history, women haven't been people, we've been chattels, like a horse or a cow, only not as useful. And like a horse or a cow, when there was one out there roaming around on her own, people tended to assume they ought to be rounded up until their rightful owner came to claim them—or if they liked the look of the beast, they assumed that possession was nine-tenths of the law. Being without an owner—I mean, without family or connections, I had no social network to appeal to. Disguising myself as a boy was out. No amount of binding would make my breasts flat enough, it's just how I was made.

However, I wasn't going to let such considerations take the bloom off the peach for me on this first day, which I spent wandering around the city, drinking it all in. It wasn't my first visit to Florence, but I didn't see it until the eighteenth century. This was the Golden Age in so many ways—all the artists, the humanist scholars, the philosophers, the architecture—so much to see and listen to!

Then night came. No respectable inn would take in a strange woman with no baggage, no servants, and no family name, not for any money. An unrespectable inn meant a brothel. While that would also solve the question of what my career path would be, I didn't care for whoring. There are some things you love to do as a hobby which would become a grinding chore if you had to make a living at it, and in my mind, sex was one of those things. As far as accommodations go, that left me one option—a convent. The sister at the gate was suspicious—I think she would have liked to believe I had stolen both the fine wool dress I was wearing and the florins in my purse, but I spoke and acted like a lady, and so she let me in and gave me a postulant's cell for the night.

That was the only night I spent there. The nuns prayed every hour on the hour, day and night. While I hadn't taken vows and therefore wasn't under any obligation to pray with them, they woke me up anyway, in case I wanted to give my soul a good brushing-up. At nine hundred odd years old, I _need_ my sleep. The convent would not work. But what would?

I spent my second day walking and thinking. What I would have liked was to attach myself to an artist's bottega as an assistan/apprentice, making paints, prepping surfaces, painting backgrounds and so forth. As an art preservationist, I certainly knew the trade, and it would be nothing to me to imitate any particular style. I could copy anything—but I could not create. They don't foster creativity in us. Our role is to preserve and save. Not to make.

But while there were a few women who worked in art during the Renaissance, they came from families of artists. Again, I had no such connections. This occupied my mind until night fall. I had nowhere to go, no place to lay my head, so instead I took to the rooftops, burning off nervous energy by leaping over streets and scaling walls.

On a whim I climbed Santa Maria del Fiore's bell tower, where some idiot in a hood ran me through with a very sharp blade. (I am actually quite fond of said idiot in a hood these days, by the way) I didn't see or hear or smell him coming. I should have, but I didn't, and it's useless to speculate why when the ground is coming up at you at thirty-two feet per second per second. That is where my analogy of time travel being like falling off a roof breaks down. The impact of falling is much more painful. It even knocked me out.

* * *

I took a deep breath and regretted it immediately.

That breath rattled loose a large clot of blood from my punctured lung, and I hacked it out into the remains of my only, and now ruined dress. An internal valve sealed off the damaged lung so the intact one could take over without being flooded, and my self-diagnostic program was refining on what I already knew: I had been stabbed in the chest and fell off the top of a bell tower. Between the flagstones and my unbreakable bones, my immortal flesh had been mashed to a pulp. Multiple soft tissue injuries, massive contusions, joint separations, etc, etc. My biomechanicals were already streaming to the rescue, but barring a meditech team and a day in a regen tank, I was looking at reduced functioning, not to mention a great deal of pain, for at least a week. However, I had bigger problems at hand—namely, not getting damaged any further and getting somewhere safe. I was also disoriented, which explains what happened next.

Mortal or cyborg, it is almost never a good thing for a woman to regain consciousness in agony and in a strange room with two unknown men, her clothing half- cut from her, her body naked to the waist. Not to mention that one of them had been sticking a metal rod into the wound. Rape-murder or vivisection, whatever their intention, it could not be good. "Noli me tangere," I told them, sitting up and clutching the remnants of my clothes to my chest. (which wasn't easy. Normally I, like the rest of my kind, could dodge bullets at point-blank range. No chance of that now...) and scrambling backward as best I could, "Noli me tangere!"

Which means 'Don't touch me,' for anyone unfamiliar with Latin, which the blond guy wasn't because he turned to his friend and said, "I know she said not to touch her, but I know little more Latin than that. I couldn't get into the right schools, given my... irregular birth." He was speaking the local Tuscan dialect.

"Strange to think of you not knowing Latin, Leonardo," the dark one replied, and that made me whip my head around to give the blond one a closer look. Now I recognized him. It was Leonardo da Vinci. Not the old, bald da Vinci of the famous sketch, tired and disillusioned looking, but a young, handsome Leonardo not yet thirty. How did I know? There was hardly any other historical figure under _more_ surveillance by Dr. Zeus operatives than he was-only Shakespeare and Jesus Christ sprang to mind. Long before he was born, anthropologists and preservationists were on hand to record, film and photograph every move he made.

However, I tucked my surprise and shock away to answer. "I speak the vernacular, sirs." I paused to cough up more clots.

"You do?" Leonardo jumped in. "What manner of creature are you?"

"A woman," I replied, "human, even as you are."

"Human, perhaps, but not as we are," his friend refuted, correctly. "Your bones, madonna, are not made of bone. Nor do women often climb to the top of the campanile of Santa Maria del Fiore at midnight."

"Nor do many men," I shot back. Whoever this was, he was unknown to history, and he wore the strangest doublet I had ever seen. It looked more like a tablard of two or three centuries before. "Yet I think that is where I met you."

"Yes. And so I know, as no other, how different you are."

I thought fast. All my programming insisted: Preserve cover. Maintain the secret of your/Dr. Zeus's existence. But Dr. Zeus was not here, and I was alone and this was _Leonardo da Vinci_ I was talking to—and after so many centuries, I knew a little about how to circumvent the prohibitions laid upon what I could and couldn't say.

"Do you know the tales of how, being unable to have children of their own, fairies come to mortal cradles and steal away human babes, which they then render immortal with potions and magics?" I asked them. "Fairy tales are a variety of myth and myths are a form of truth..."

TBC, maybe.


	3. Medical Assistance

"Yes," Leonardo answered, "they take unbaptized infants, and leave a straw doll in place of the stolen children. Although I remember once there was a child born in Vinci, one of those half-wit children with flat round faces and odd eyes. They're usually born late in life. That is, the mother's life. His mother swore he was not hers, that a fairy had swapped their children, and she drowned him."

"My nonna said that it was the stregas who stole babies to sacrifice to the devil," Ezio remembered, "and that afterward the witches roasted and ate them."

"Yes, those are the kinds of tale I mean," their strange guest agreed, "although—. Aaaaah," she winced in pain, "it doesn't matter to Dr. Zeus whether they're baptized or not. The age is important—the Process works best on the youngest, and they never take a child old enough to have lost baby teeth. Oh. Oh, oh, oh—I can't concentrate."

"I have wine here, and syrup of poppies, to ease the pain." da Vinci volunteered. "Lie still, and I'll get you a cup." He could still listen to the conversation from the kitchen, where he set about making a posset, adding a few raw eggs to strengthen it-since he used egg tempera paints, he always had eggs on hand-and a pinch of nutmeg to hide the fact that it wasn't very good wine.

"Thank you," she said, "although there is my credenza, which has medicines specific to my kind. I left it in a crypt under Santa Maria Novella. I can tell you where it is—if one of you could fetch it, but it's in an odd place. There's a—."

"I know where that is," Ezio spoke up, "a huge vault, with statues and a cistern of water, which leads to a tomb with a statue of the Assassin Darius of Persia. Before I go, though—this Dr. Zeus, who is he?"

"Not he. They. They are—a group of people—I don't know how to expl—explain it simply, but they are greedy, unethical tyrants." She gasped for breath, pressing her hand to her injured side. "Oh, it hurts."

"Sounds like the Templars to me," Ezio frowned, then smiled. "Madonna, it may be—what is your name?"

"Ginevra—Ginevra Schiavoni," she said. "Schiavoni means 'servant' or 'slave', and that is what I am."

"And I am Ezio Auditore. Madonna Ginevra, it may be that we share the same enemies. Where did you leave your credenza?"

She told him, adding, at the end, "but if Dr. Zeus is connected to the Templars, I have never heard of it."

"I will be back soon," he promised. The candle flames flickered in his wake as he left the workshop.

"Here you are," Leonardo gave her the cup, "This should have you feeling better soon."

"Thank you," she replied, sitting up a little and taking a swallow. "The eggs are just what I need to help heal—.When he gets back, Sir Leonardo, I—must beg you for a very great favor. You have studied anatomy, I know—."

"How do you know that?"

She blinked, as if caught off guard, and then replied, a touch too smoothly, "by the excellent naturalness of the people in your artwork. There are special surgical instruments in my credenza along with the medicines. If you are willing to act the part of the surgeon, you can speed my recovery by days."

"I've never operated on a living person!" he protested. "Madonna Ginevra, I feel for you in your plight, but I can't cut into living flesh—and you've lost so much blood already."

"There will be no blood," she promised. "Sir Ezio was right; I am not like you, and these instruments are not like the ones you know. I can talk you through it, when the time comes, if you are willing. I could do some of the work myself, but there will be places I can't reach."

"Then I—I will try," he said, hoping she was right. Then his curiosity overcame him. "But how is it possible? What are your bones made of? I've heard of a surgeon implanting a bead of gold in a limb near a joint, which somehow eases the pain, but to replace an entire bone, or a skeleton—how can it be done without killing the patient? If worn joints or even organs could be replaced—. How did they keep you from going into shock? Or dying of blood loss? Or keep infection from setting in?"

She smiled for the first time—the poppy syrup must have started working. "Slow down a little—Um. You're certainly intelligent enough to understand the answers, but first I'll have to explain the explanations."

Ever the artist, Leonardo eyed her face as though to paint her. Ginevra Schiavoni was no great beauty, but her eyes were intelligent (when not screwed up in pain) and her smile sweet and wistful. She might do as a model for Martha, the sister of Mary Magdalene, the one who chided the Magdalene for sitting at Christ's feet listening when there was so much work to be done in the kitchen making a meal for Him and His apostles, and was scolded in turn by the Savior. She had the look of one who not only gets left out, but winds up doing more than her fair share of the work—sad, but with a hint of annoyance underneath. Her glance roamed around his studio, over sketches and models, paintings and prototypes.

"I might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb." she burst out after a moment. "And if for a sheep, then why not the whole damned flock? I am so far in that there's no way back. I'll tell you. It won't be that long before they can replace joints and transplant organs," she came out with, suddenly. "Less than five hundred years, in fact. Anesthesia, blood typing, antibiotics—."

"I don't know what those are. Less than five hundred years? And you say that isn't long? How do you _know_?"

"That's part of the explanation that needs explaining. That painting, there, where things in the background get smaller and smaller-." She pointed to the Annunciation he had on the easel, a work he was particularly proud of.

"Yes, that's a technique called perspective. A flat surface has only two dimensions, height and width, but objects have three, height, width, and depth. By making the background diminish in size, I make it look as it would if you were really there. It's all mathematics." he said, pleased and surprised. He had no idea where this peculiar conversation of theirs might be leading, or what wendings it would take along the way, but even if the things she was telling him were only half-true, they were fascinating. They had to be true, didn't they? Her bones alone were proof of it.

"Suppose you were to plant a bean in a pot, water it and put it in the sun, then draw a picture of the bean plant every day on a fresh sheet of paper, from the same angle and to the same scale, from before the sprout emerged until the plant withered and died-." She paused for another gulp of posset.

"Yes?" he pressed her.

"-and then stack the drawings together in the order you drew them, like a book. You could flip the pages and watch the plant sprout, grow and die all over again, in less time than it takes for me to tell you about it. Then you could flip them in the other direction, and watch it come back to life again. Then you'd have captured the fourth dimension-time."

"_Four_ dimensions!" he exclaimed. "I _must_ try that!"

She nodded. "Go ahead. But now imagine if you could do that _to the real plant_."

He was stunned into silence, his mind racing with thoughts too swift for him to even keep track of. "Madonna Ginevra-how old _are_ you?"

"I'm eighteen. But I've been eighteen since I turned eighteen-which for me was eight hundred and ninety-some years ago. That flying machine model of yours-I've seen the day when a craft using the principles you discover will bear hundreds of people at a time to other planets."

Silence again, most unusual for him. _He_ had thought he was explaining perspective to _her. _This was...perspective of another kind."How you must despise us-me-groping around like a child just learning his letters, when you can read all the books in the world."

She closed her eyes. "No more than the steeple on the Duomo despises the foundations. If the foundations were not built soundly, the cathedral would crumble. Although I have found it very annoying that you start so many paintings that you never finish." Her eyes flew open again and fixed his with a reproachful look.

"I can't help it!" he protested. "Once I know exactly how a work is going to turn out, once it's finished in my mind-I can't stay interested in it."

"You must have the worst case of ADD known to history," she said cryptically.

"I don't know what that is." Leonardo admitted.

"It's a-disorder of the humors which diminishes the attention span. I may be able to whip you up a treatment for that, once I have my credenza-and once I'm restored to optimal function."

Right on cue, the door opened, and Ezio entered, shouldering a good-sized cabinet. "I'm back," he announced. "How are you-is something wrong, Leonardo? You look the way I feel after I spend an hour with you-like I've taken in more than I can make sense of." Crossing the studio, he put the credenza down on a second worktable, one in easy reach of the one Ginevra occupied.

"That is just how I feel," Leonardo said. He looked to Ginevra, who glanced at Ezio and then back at him, shaking her head a little, as if to say: _Send him out. I don't want him to see_.

"My friend," da Vinci said smoothly, "can I send you on another errand? I have little food here, and I think Madonna Ginevra will be in need of something more substantial."

He could speak with his eyes as well as Ginevra: _Please step out for a little while, Ezio_. Fortunately, the assassin took the hint. "What about a quart or two of capon soup and some good bread? Moth-my mother always had the cook make capon soup when we were ill."

"Yes, thank you, Sir Ezio," Ginevra said, gratefully, and she held out a pouch which jingled. "I can pay-."

"Madonna, put that away. I caused you the injury. This is the least I can do." He went out again.

"All right," she turned back to Leonardo after opening the cabinet. Holding out three or four odd metal instruments no longer than the length of his hand, Ginevra said, "This is what to do..."

Five minutes later, he was using an instrument with a rounded tip-rounded and blunt, no less-to somehow cut a thin red line around the perimeter of her back. She was lying face down on the table now, naked, seemingly not merely unconscious but dead. Her skin peeled away easily and bloodlessly, to reveal muscles, tendons and blood vessels which did not pulse with life-but over which tiny red sparks danced, like bits of burning paper. '_Use the triangular one to join the red sparks together-touch it to one and lead it to another nearby, like you're drawing a pencil line. If it's the right connection, it'll flash green. If not, try another._' she had told him. This was the strangest thing he had ever tried, and his blood practically fizzed in his veins with excitement, but his hand was steady.

He was not certain if Ginevra would prove to be a friend, but he knew one thing-he would never, under any circumstances, look on her with carnal desire. This operation he performed killed any possibility of that. Not that he was disgusted-he had dissected too many bodies to be revolted by this. He liked her personally, and intellectually they seemed compatible, but doing this for her put her in the category of-someone who he knew too well, too familiarly to be attracted to. Like a sister, or even like his mother, given that she was technically much older than he. (Intellectually it was difficult to comprehend how _much_ older she really was.)

The work went fast, and soon he was sealing her skin back up like smoothing the surface of butter with a knife, almost. Then he wrapped a sheet around her before performing what she had called a-reshoe? No, a reboot, by putting another instrument up her nose. She stiffened up, took another deep breath, easier this time, and opened her eyes. "Thank you, Sir Leonardo. Oh, this is so much better."

"You're welcome. But please, call me Leonardo without the 'Sir'."

"If you would have it so, I will. But only if you drop the 'madonna'. I'm Ginevra."


	4. Say Cheese!

By the time Ezio returned, I was all put back together and wearing one of Leonardo's robes (an only slightly ink-stained one, and Leonardo himself was designing what would be, if he built it, the world's first compound microscope. I had answered a few questions of his about the circulatory system and how it worked, which led naturally to a discussion about the composition of blood, and when I told him it would be possible to see blood cells for himself, given the right instrument, there was no stopping him.

It would be a hundred and ten years before recorded history said that the Janssens, father and son eye glass makers, would discover that putting several lenses together in a tube would make things look much bigger than one lens by itself and thereby invent the telescope. Nineteen years later, Galileo would have a go at it, discovering that the stars moved and the earth went around the sun rather than vice versa, while a few decades later van Leeuwenhoek would go in the other direction because he worked in a fabric warehouse and had to do thread counts on the goods, coming up with the microscope.

How would scientific history specifically and human history in general change if da Vinci followed through and developed these things here and now? I had the feeling that I was going to find out.

Of course it all depended on his following through, which even he admitted he had a problem with. "Leonardo," I said after some thought, "my credenza does have a microscope application. If you wanted, you could just jab your finger and have a look right now."

He froze for a moment, then looked up from his sketch, looking pensive and even a bit pale. "Mado—Ginevra. I thank you, but no. I do not doubt that what you have told me is true, that what your microscope would show me would be real, but if I—if I am to retain any sense of self-worth in the face of the revelation of what science will be, what the world will be, then I must not only see for myself, I must understand_ how_ the seeing comes about, independently—if you understand me."

"I do," I nodded. That was when someone knocked on the door, and it turned out to be Ezio. He hadn't been able to come up with capon soup at that time of night, no surprise there, given the hour, but he'd come back with a nice big salami, a couple of loaves of bread, a hunk of cheese, and more wine. Soon we had an indoor picnic going on the floor of Leonardo's studio, by candlelight, and Ezio had been brought up to date on some of the things I had told Leonardo.

"This is really good salami," I said, during a pause in the conversation, and I meant it. The last time I'd had a salami that good was in Buda-Pest in 1893. "I can taste the horsemeat, not just a lot of sugar." There's a bacteria vital to the curing process that needs some sugar to feed on. Horsemeat has higher sugar levels naturally, so after people got sentimental about eating horses they had to start adding sugar.

"Who'd waste something that expensive on a salami?" Ezio asked. "You ought to try some, Leonardo. You're missing out."

"No, thank you. I don't eat anything that has a face," he demurred. "But this is good pecorino cheese."

I looked at the two of them. Leonardo, of course, was as golden and handsome as a fairytale prince, while Ezio was darker, and had heavier features, with a scar bisecting his mouth on the right side of his face. Still attractive, though. I scanned him, and wasn't surprised that he had all the indicators of being robustly healthy. There was something odd about him, though. For that matter, there was more than one thing odd about this situation. "Do you mind if I ask why neither of you is more alarmed by my being here?" I wondered aloud. "Not that I'm complaining, but by this time I would have thought that one or both of you would have turned me over to the Church and I would've been 'put to the question' by now." 'Put to the question' was a euphemism for torture and required no explaining to them.

"I believe in science," Leonardo said simply. "Science seeks to explain and to understand, while the Church—the Church too often seeks to make things and people fit into what it already knows to be 'true'."

"Nothing is true," Ezio replied, "that is, no faith or philosophy is the only answer. I will not get into an argument over science. And I myself have a few abilities which others do not."

"Such as?" I prompted. A statement like that cannot go unquestioned.

"It runs in my family," he explained. "My father called it 'eagle vision'. That's why he named me 'Ezio', Greek for 'Eagle'. He saw it in me when I was born. I was the only one of his sons—of his children, I should say—who inherited it. I don't know how to describe it, but when I use it, I see the world in a different way. That, Madonna Ginevra, is why I stabbed you. I was using it, and suddenly you appeared before me. You looked like nothing I'd ever seen before. I could see your bones through your skin, and you burned with a green flame. I reacted without thinking. I'm sorry."

"I forgive you," I said. "If a flaming green skeleton suddenly jumped up at me, I imagine I'd panic too."

"Thank you. Now, I want to ask why you call Dr. Zeus a bunch of greedy unethical tyrants? What do they do, and what do you do?"

"It's not easily explained...Suppose you knew Leonardo had an implacable enemy, who would not only have him killed but planned to burn down his studio. You know you can't save Leonardo—."

"Why can't he save me?" Leonardo asked, looking startled. "Who is this enemy?"

"He can't," I told him. "That's just how it is."

"Why?" Ezio looked offended. "If a friend of mine has an enemy, I have an enemy too. It's that simple. I'd go kill the son-of-a-whore and be done with it."

"Because in this case the enemy is Time, and no mortal can stand against him. Eventually he gets you all. Just think of him as a flesh-and-blood enemy for the moment. His enemy will not only kill him but destroy many of his works. Having foreknowledge of this, you send someone to his studio and have them clear out everything they can carry. Then you have them hide it for several years before you sell it for more florins than are all in the Medici banks put together. I am the person you sent to clear out the studio and hide the contents."

"Are _many_ of my works going to be destroyed?" Leonardo asked. "How many?" 

"I should never have used you as an example...Some of them are. Your Leda and the Swan is going to end up in a French king's bathroom until the wood panels warp from all the heat and humidity—which is a great argument for painting on a stretched canvas as the Venetians do, by the way. The Last Supper you do for the Duke of Milan starts coming off the wall almost immediately because you're going to paint it on dry plaster, and—."

"Then I won't paint it on dry plaster!"

"—worse than that, the mural for the Palazzo Vecchio doesn't even wait for you to be done. It starts sliding off the wall while you're still painting it. The good news is, my credenza here can make a stabilizer which you can use as an undercoat or add to your paint that'll fix those kinds of problems."

"What other kinds of problems can your credenza there fix?" Ezio sat up and asked. "You said something about there being medicines in it for your kind. Will it make other medicines, too?"

"It can make a lot of different compounds given the right raw materials," I replied, wondering who he knew who was sick. Not him and not Leonardo, either. "It can't make the Elixir of Life, because immortality isn't acquired as simply as a single formula."

"I was thinking of something else," he said, then shook his head, "But saving Leonardo's—or anybody else's works from destruction is a noble thing, is it not? Where's the problem?"

"The problem..." I remembered what I was ordered to do—and did— during World War Two, when the Nazis were stealing art from all over Europe. Several leaders amassed huge collections of priceless art, and not all of it was recovered afterward. I had loathed what I did, but arguably it had only hurt me and I did not want these two nice young mortals with that image of me in their heads. "that sometimes they don't content themselves with just saving works. Their version of Truth is 'Recorded History Cannot Be Changed', but that leaves unrecorded history for them to play in. There is an artist of the Low Countries, living in the city of Delft, named Johannes Vermeer. You won't have heard of him," mainly because he wouldn't be born until 1632, "obscure during his life, but who will be renowned in time to come. Only thirty-seven of his works will survive, and they will be valued beyond measure. Knowing this, Dr. Zeus began to wish there might be more, but Vermeer worked very slowly and that seemed impossible.

"So, like the devil sending a demon to tempt a saint, only worse, Dr. Zeus sent an agent to tempt Vermeer with a way to paint more quickly, and a guaranteed buyer for almost anything he would paint."

"What was the way he could paint more quickly?" Leonardo asked, and I smiled.

"I knew you were going to ask that. You know how when you take an old doublet to the tailor to have him take the trim off and reuse it on a new one, there's a perfect outline of the trim left behind on the old because the sun faded all the rest of the fabric? The dye was light-sensitive. Now imagine that you could have that happen in the blink of an eye, only ten times more detailed, and imagine that you could treat an entire canvas with that dye, put it in a camera obscura—you know how those work, you can see an entire landscape reflected on the back wall of it. Then you'd paint over the image—no drawing necessary, no mathematics. Just set up the scene, shoot it, and slap some paint on it."

"That would take all the life out of it," Leonardo thought out loud. "And if it was that simple, who could not be an artist? Patrons could do as much themselves."

"It won't come to that for centuries," I consoled him. "Vermeer chafed under those conditions, but he had eleven children, so he did it. Yet there is worse. The dyes and chemicals were poisonous. While not immediately dangerous, their effects were cumulative. Over time, they destroyed his health and eventually killed him. He was only forty-three. Adding insult to injury, Dr. Zeus did not even pay him fairly. Recorded history said he died destitute, so die destitute he had to do. He was paid a hundred florins per painting. Dr. Zeus sold each of them for millions of florins."

"You were right," Ezio agreed after a moment. "Greedy and unethical they are. But tyrants? Who compelled that agent to make Vermeer that offer? Could he not have refused?"

"It was a she, and—no. _We can't rebel_. You don't know, you don't have any idea what—. We can't die." I said, recalling what had happened to me. "Even if my bones were stripped clean of meat, and disjointed from each other for years, they would seek to come together and rise again. If my skull looked naked on the outside, inside my brain would still be intact. I could not see or hear or feel, smell or taste, but I would be alive and aware. Or if they sent you back in time twenty thousand years and left you there to live it forward all alone. People would just disappear, and—."

More wine splashed into my cup. "Don't talk about it anymore, madonna," Ezio said with rough sympathy. "But you're here, and you're free now, even if you don't know why. Have another drink, and prepare to do some listening. I have an idea..."


	5. Chocolate, Lies, and the Gout

"What you need," Auditore began, "is a _patrone_, not an employer. I'm not one who's going to put down the intellect of women—my sister Claudia keeps the books for me and my uncle Mario, and she's sharper than a stiletto. Better at figures than me or my brothers ever were, in truth. But Father could never have put her in charge of the bank. Unfair, yes. That's just how it is, and you know it."

"All too well. What business are you and your uncle in, by the way? Bankers, in my experience, do not usually go around stabbing strangers on top of bell towers in the middle of the night."

Ezio grimaced and shrugged. "My uncle is the lord of Montereggione, but he is better known as a condottiere. As for me, I—do odd jobs, here and there."

"Really?" I asked, skeptically. "The kind of odd job that requires you to wear half-armor and hide retractable blades up your sleeves?"

"Yes, but—we can talk about that later. First, my idea." He sat up, his dark eyes brightening.

"Just a moment," I rummaged in the bottom of my credenza for a bar of chocolate, "I need something to fortify me before I hear this. Want some?" I offered them each a third, and chuckled at their blank looks. "It's just candy." (For them, that is. For me it was more intoxicating than the wine we were sharing.) "Go ahead, try it."

Their expressions of awe were simply adorable, like a couple of eight-year-olds. "What_ is_ this?" Leonardo asked, taking the wrapper. "Theobromos Velvet Truffle? No truffle I ever ate tasted like this."

"They call it a truffle because it's rich and flavorful, like the other sort." I told him. "It's called chocolate—Theobromos is the name of the confectioner."

"It reminds me of carob," Ezio tasted his piece, "only—only more so. Madonna, if you can make and sell this here, your fortune is assured."

"If only I could! But the bean it's made from grows on the other side of the world. So," I said, taking a chunk and rolling it around on my tongue, "what is it you want me to cure?"

"Gout," he said. "I know someone who suffers from it most cruelly. He is nearly crippled with it, and no dottore has as yet been able to give him relief."

Gout, that beloved ailment of Victorian novelists, was actually a form of acute inflammatory arthritis caused by an excess of uric acid in the system. Mostly it was excreted in urine—that was where it got its name. However, some people didn't process uric acid well and it formed crystals in the joints, causing heat, swelling, and inflammation, not to mention extreme agony and eventually death, depending on how severe the case was. Diet, exposure to high levels of lead, and genetics were all factors.

I asked my credenza about possible medications and was rewarded with a list of necessary ingredients. "Is the flower of Colchis available here? It's like a crocus, only it blooms in autumn instead of spring. It seems to bloom from nothing, as the leaves die months before, and the flowers are pale purple."

"You mean meadow saffron? Yes, but it's poisonous." Leonardo said.

"Poisonous in the wrong dosage, true," I said, " but it won't be once my credenza has processed it. MMmmmm—what about a beverage called chaube or caffe? It comes from the Arabies, or perhaps Ethiop. It's made from little beans, roasted until they're brown, then ground and steeped in hot water."

"Never heard of it," Ezio shook his head.

"I have," Leonardo said. "The monks at San Donato a Scopeto drink it to help them stay vigilant during their prayers." He grimaced. "They're suing me over a painting."

"The Adoration of the Magi," I nodded. "You haven't finished it."

"It's not my fault this time!" he protested. "I trusted my father to draw up the contract, but the terms were terrible. Should I have to take on a commission where I lose money? I have to pay for all the materials including gold leaf, but they're paying me in land I have no use for and can't even sell—except back to them, for a set price. Three hundred florins! I'd spend more than that on the lapis lazuli for the sky. Serves me right for trusting my father."

He continued to grouse (he was, I think, a little drunk) while I told the credenza that yes, both colchicum and coffea were available. Turning back to Ezio, I told him, "Cure it, no. Treat it, yes—if Lorenzo Il Magnifico is willing to take medicine as prescribed and make some lifestyle changes. And if the head of the Medici is willing to take orders from a woman."

"What?" Ezio had been sitting with his feet up on a table, and when he started, they came crashing down. Even Leonardo shut up for a moment. "How did you know who it was for?"

I smiled, enjoying the moment. "Gout is called 'the rich man's disease' because only rich men can afford a steady diet of the foods which aggravate the condition—red meat, sugar and seafood—not to mention strong wines. Gout is also called 'the kings' disease' not just because kings tend to be rich but because it's passed down through family lines. The Medici have been plagued with gout for generations. Cosimo de Medici, grandfather of the present family head, had gout. His son, Piero, father to Lorenzo, was _nicknamed_ 'Gouty'. Lucrezia Tournabuoni, Piero's wife and Lorenzo's mother, had gout. Any child of theirs had at least a seventy-five percent chance of inheriting gout.

"You—." I pointed to his shoulder, "—wear the Medici arms on your cape. Therefore you have strong ties to Lorenzo. He wouldn't bestow a gift like that on just anyone. The bonds of friendship are no light thing to you either, judging by your ready avowal that your friends' enemies are yours also. Conclusion: the patient-patron you have in mind is Lorenzo de Medici."

"A figure like Venus and the wisdom of Minerva, in one woman," Ezio bowed to me, half in respect and half-teasing. "Madonna Ginevra, I salute you."

"And the chastity of Diana as well," I told him ascerbically, "so don't get any ideas, amico. You still haven't solved the problem of my gender. Not only does Lorenzo have to accept me as his doctor despite it, society in general has to. The church will call me unnatural at best and a witch at worst, and the male medical establishment will do their best to deny me the right to practice."

"That is where my idea comes into play," Auditore broke off another square of chocolate and put it in his mouth. "This is the best stuff I ever tasted...Leonardo, get paper, pen and ink. We're going to write a letter. You, madonna Ginevra, are the daughter and only child of Dottore—what's a good name for a doctor? Not a street corner medico, but a private physician."

"Sigisimundo?" I suggested, thinking of Sigmund Freud. While I was unclear as to where this was leading exactly, it promised to be an entertaining journey.

"That's good. Dottore Sigisimundo Schiavoni of –where?" Ezio frowned.

Leonardo was still hunting for the writing materials. "There's a Via Schiavoni in Venice, if I recall correctly."

"Of Venice—which is far enough away that no one will know for sure." The thought pleased Auditore.

"Perhaps he was born in Venice but quarreled with his family at an early age and went off to study medicine at the University of Basel in Switzerland." I made up. "He was one of their first students. Since graduating, he traveled for a time before settling down on Cyprus. He has studied the ancient medical texts of Galen , Dioscorides, and especially Alexander of Tralles." The last doctor was the earliest known to have mentioned using autumn crocus to treat gout, adding a touch of verisimilitude to an unconvincing narrative.

"Very good!" Leonardo found what he was looking for and sat back down. "Who is this letter to?"

"To you." Ezio declared. "Because you and he met a few years ago and have been exchanging letters since then. He has returned to Italy, in hopes of reconciling with his family and plans to visit you before going on to Venice. Knowing of the Medicis' affliction, he wonders if you would introduce the two of them. He has had some success in treating gout and wants to place his knowledge at Lorenzo's disposal. Naturally he has brought his retinue of servants along as well as the jewel of his heart, his daughter Ginevra."

"That's all very well and good," I said, "but I have no father and no retinue. How do you explain the bait and switch?"

"Bandits," Ezio said. "Your traveling party was attacked by bandits. Those of your servants who were not slain are missing, as is your father. I arrived in time to save you, and hearing your story, brought you to Lorenzo."

"As his daughter, I expect that my father must have taught me how to make all his medicines and imparted many of his secrets to me." I conjectured. "I may be only a woman, but if a woman can learn a recipe for soup, she can learn one for gout medicine."

"Of course, madonna!" Ezio smiled broadly. "And until he is found, one way or another, your honor and his require the protection of someone of suitable standing in the community, such as Lorenzo and his wife, Donna Clarice."

"Then I had better come up with a few concoctions to please her as well as making medicine for the gout," I thought out loud. "Skin creams and perfumes—except I think Lorenzo suffers from asthma as well..."

Inwardly, the Theobromos was suppressing a tidal wave of wild anxiety. Lorenzo would/was supposed to die of his illness in a dozen years—barely an eye-blink in my long life, but a significant chunk of his. His son, Piero the Unfortunate (a nicer nickname than he deserved) would fritter away the Medici fortune, wreck the goodwill of the people, and generally send the Florentine state into a tailspin, paving the way for Savonarola and his bonfires.

What if that didn't happen? What if Lorenzo lived on another ten years, or even more? Could I truly change history?

A/N: I don't want to be one of those ficcers who holds their stories hostage for reviews, but it would sure be nice to hear from some more readers. Am I doing a good job? A barely acceptable one? One which makes you want to vomit? Historical facts and medical are as accurate as I can make them, mostly. (I _love _Wikipedia!) I don't know when the monks at San Donato first had coffee, but I do know that cappuccino was invented by an order of capuchin monks to help them stay vigilant during prayers.

Thanks,

J. Tyler


	6. The Recycled Virgin

This is not, by the way, a romance. Leonardo doesn't realize he's a closeted heterosexual after all, and that a platonic relationship is not the kind he wants with me. Ezio doesn't remember the myth of Diana and Endymion (she bore him fifty daughters, all conceived while he slept) nor what that implies about my chastity. The two of them don't have a mad passionate love affair, nor do the three of us wind up in a menage a trois, fucking our way around Renaissance Italy. That's not what this is about.

Why not?

Please. I'm an ancient jaded creature who's done pretty much everything imaginable, sexually. What the hell else is there to do if you're immortal, to kill time? They made us immune to all disease and sterile, which removes most of the constraints mortals experience. After World War Two, after they dug me out of the pit of quicklime, put all the pieces back together before popping me into a regen tank for five years, I was-rather wild, for about a hundred years after that. It was a way to reclaim myself, you see, to reclaim my body and affirm that I was alive and that I could feel.

Anyhow, once I'd settled down after that, I realized that by and large, I'd usually rather have a bar of good chocolate instead. Since it's been about three hundred years since I last had a lover, my maidenhead has almost certainly regenerated by now-our repair systems are that complete. Which makes me technically a recycled virgin, I suppose.

But while I've been with mortals and immortals, with men and with women, with people I loved and people I didn't give a damn about, I've never included children among my lovers. Leo and Ezio were just so damn young, barely out of boyhood. Okay, any living mortal would be a embryo in comparison with _my_ years, but it would have felt obscene. I'm too old to fall in love with a pretty face or a pretty body-or even a pretty mind.

Enough about my sex life or lack thereof. Time to get on with my story. If it seems I am dallying overlong with this account of what is, after all, only a single evening, it is because it is important. I made a decision that night which has determined all that follows.

After more discussion, we decided it would be better to write the letter from my fictional father as if it were a separate enclosure for Lorenzo introducing himself, rather than part of a longer letter to Leonardo. I copied it out on good paper, using a bold, assertive script, and Leo provided the finishing touch by excavating an antique signet ring and sealing it with red wax.

"I'll go to the Medici palazzo tomorrow," he promised, "right after I visit the lens grinder so I can start work on that microscope. It's so exciting!"

"Better deliver it before," Ezio cautioned, pouring out the last of the wine among our goblets. "You'll get to talking to the grinder and lose track of the time. I myself shall go to Monteriggione for the ingredients you need for this medicine—most of them anyway. Better give me that dress of yours, madonna Ginevra. I know a tailor who'll redye it if he can't get the stain out, and mend it too. He does it all the time for me." Shaking out his cuff, he showed off the bloodstains-my blood's stain. "Not the first, and it won't be the last."

"I ought to have some other reason for visiting Il Magnifico than just the letter, " Leonardo fretted, looking around his studiolo. "I know-there's that song I've been working on..." He got a lute down off the wall, adjusted the tuning a little, and started to play. By that time, I was pleasantly buzzed from the chocolate, and the world was looking pretty rosy from where I was sitting. I relaxed, let myself scan my companions a little more deeply, and got the shock of my life. And considering how long my life has been, you can imagine the size of the shock.

This bears explaining: All cyborgs of my type can monitor the brain activity of mortals to some degree. All it is, after all, is electrical impulses, easy-peasy. Some immortals can see pictures of what the mortals are thinking or even read thoughts-not me. All I can see are little lights as the neurons fire. Emotional responses, with their physical markers like heartbeat, breathing, body odor, and so on, are even easier to read. Leonardo's brain looked like fireworks going off over the biggest, brightest, gaudiest display of Christmas lights you ever saw, provided you were familiar with the holiday rituals of late twentieth-early twenty-first century American suburban dwellers. Ezio, however-

Ezio had no discernable brain activity. At all. Not even the basic brainstem functions that meant he was alive.

Yet alive he was, and a simple physical scan revealed that he was about twenty years old and in robust good health. Outstandingly robust good health, in fact. But no brain activity. I deepened my scan, going out into all the spectra visible to me, and that was when I spotted it-the faint blue haze of Crome's Radiation, signature of psychic ability. Ezio was using it, consciously or not, to mask his presence. That was why I hadn't detected him on top the bell tower. He must be practically invisible on the street, I realized, or anywhere where no one knew he was there. More than that, he had never broken any bones, never suffered any serious or lasting injury, which might not seem unusual until you take into consideration that he climbed buildings like a monkey. But how much climbing did he do?

I asked him. "Do you climb buildings a lot, Ezio?"

Leonardo replied before his friend could get a word in. "All the time," he said. "It's incredible. Flies on the wall aren't any better at it than he is. I don't know how he does it." Poor lad-he obviously had a huge man-crush on Ezio, but I judged that the object of his affections in this case was about eighty percent straight, meaning the only way Leo had a chance was if they were in a situation where there were no women around at all, like in a prison, on board a ship far out to sea, or in a monastery.

Ezio shrugged modestly. "It takes practice. That's all."

"More than just practice!" Leonardo laughed. "I've seen him leap off the top of the Signoria Tower and land in a pile of hay on the piazza as lightly as-as lightly as a mouse would from a roof beam in a barn."

Nobody is that good, that lucky. Ezio had already spoken of his 'eagle vision', an unusual and inherited ability. It seemed he had inherited more than that. He wasn't an immortal, but he was more than just run of the mill Homo Sapiens.

"Your family, Ezio-you mentioned that your sister keeps the books for you and your uncle. What about your brothers? How many do you have, and what are they doing?" Behind Ezio, Leonardo lifted a hand from the lute string to make shushing waves at me, shaking his head as if to say 'Don't ask!'

"I had two brothers. They're dead," he stated bleakly. "My father also. Hanged for treason, which was a false charge laid upon them by the Pazzi and by one my father counted as a friend. My mother has been-unwell since we lost them. She resides with my sister at my uncle's villa."

"I'm sorry." I said, knowing how dull, wretched and inadequate those words were, "Judging from what I see in you, (other than your tendency to stab when you're startled, that is) I think they must have been wonderful people. Was it-was it recently?"

"Almost four years ago," he replied. "and yes, we were-we were very happy. If you think I'm bad, you should have known my older brother..." He told me about them, while Leonardo played a soft and sorrowful melody in the background, listening even as I was. He told me about midnight races over the rooftop with his elder brother, Federico, of his mother's sharp wit and her gifted pen, about Petruccio the younger brother who was never very strong and was not expected to live to adulthood. "He loved birds, like Leonardo here, and he collected eagle feathers. My mother-she has his collection now, and whenever I find one I add it, in his memory. I don't know if it helps or not. She eats little, sleeps less, only talks to pray." Then he went on to tell me of the uncle who had taken them in and trained him to fight. He did not talk about his father, not that night. Which was important, because, good or bad, a father is the mark against which a boy measures himself. Whether he accepts or rejects his sire, he can't erase him.

It was only later that I found out his father had been not only a notable assassin, but an Assassin, and that Ezio was not only following in his footsteps, he was carrying out a full-blown personal vendetta against those responsible for the destruction of his family. Namely, the Order of the Templars, forced underground but still active. (Dr. Zeus teaches us not to make value judgements, that no culture, no creed, no school of thought is more 'right' than any other, but when I found out that Roderigo Borgia, later to become Pope Alexander VI, the most epicene, corrupt, licentious, vile-there really aren't enough adjectives to do him justice-monster ever to buy his way into the Papal Seat, not to mention inflicting his offspring on the population, was the head of the Templars, I consider that I chose the right side.)

I looked at the two of them in a moment when the conversation stilled, and the lute music swelled, at Leonardo whose genius would shine like a beacon through the centuries to come, golden and handsome as a fairytale prince, at dark Ezio with his tragic past, as handsome in his own way, and a tremendous flood of affection for them welled up in me. And yes, my brain was awash in a happy bath of Theobromos and alcohol, not to mention the endorphins my repair system was pumping out in response to my injuries, and that combination of chemicals would be enough to make a statue fall in love, and the music was enough to make angels weep. Moreover, I was free and alone for the first time in my life, which on some level was terrifying. I knw all of that, but it did not matter.

The human heart, be it mortal or immortal, wants to be a part of a group, wants to belong, wants to love. They were so kind, so good to me, although I was the strangest stranger they had ever met. It seemed as though we had always known each other, children together in the sunny morning of our lives, and I was happy, so happy. That was when I decided: they were my brothers, as if they had been born so. Leonardo's immortality was assured, but I would save all his works from loss and destruction. Ezio-ordinarily it was a terrible mistake to get attached to a mortal, their lives were so brief, but I had known a Security Tech, a fellow cyborg named Porfirio, who had kept track of his mortal brother's descendants. He'd become their guardian angel, entering their lives as a distant cousin, a best friend, maybe a stepfather for a deceased great-nephew's children. I could do that, I _would _do that, for the Auditore, I decided. Changing history was a fine and noble goal, but it was also very abstract. If you're going to make the world a better place, it helps if you're doing it for _someone_.

Of course I had no idea what I was signing up for, but even if I had, it wouldn't have made any difference.

It just would have been nice to have some warning, that's all.

* * *

A/N: I've 'found' a picture of Ginevra while looking through a book on Renaissance art. I've put the link in my profile. It's not a very flattering portrait of her, but it does capture her expression perfectly.

.


	7. Important Events of 1492

Ezio returned a week later to discover Leonardo and Ginevra working together on an enormous painting. He was both glad and surprised to see it: glad, because Ginevra had no choice but to stay with Leo all that time, indoors and out of sight. Who knew what might happen between them in that time? But they seemed to be getting along well. The surprise stemmed from what they were working on—namely the Adoration of the Magi which Leonardo was being sued over.

In fact, they were working so intently that they didn't even notice he came in. "Isn't that the one you said you'd lost interest in?" Ezio asked. "What changed your mind?"

"Ezio!" Leonardo greeted him. "So good to see you! You're just the man we need. Look at this and tell me if you understand the message. There's a code in it."

Ginevra brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes with her relatively paint-free wrist, muttered something about a 'Da Vinci code', and smiled.

Ezio looked. "It's rather...dark, isn't it? Was it supposed to be a night scene?" The Adoration showed the three Magi paying homage to the Madonna and Child, which was entirely conventional, but the time of day was not. The sky was just on the verge of dawn, with a faint haze of rose and gold on the horizon, the same rose and gold which streamed from the Child's body and halo. Otherwise, it was lit only by a few torches. "Ummm—the Child is the light of the world, and this is His dawning? I don't know that much about these things."

"See? I told you so." Ginevra said, sounding so much like Ezio's sister Claudia that he had to suppress a smile. "Of course, if you know English, it's even better as a statement. Their words for _figlio_ and_ sole_ sound very much the same—'son' and 'sun'. Making it a night scene was my suggestion. He was wondering how to get enough money together for the lapis, and I said 'Why not make it night? All you'll need is black and black is cheap.' He got this look on his face and grabbed for his palette."

"But why?" Ezio asked.

"It's a long story." Leonardo frowned at a spot on the painting, and dabbed at it carefully. "I looked all over Florence and asked everywhere, but I couldn't find any caffe beans for the medicine, not from any merchant. The only place where I knew to find it any closer than Turkey was the Monastery, and since they weren't likely to welcome me without a painting in hand, I came back here and we got to work. Ginevra makes a wonderful assistant—the best I've ever had."

"Flatterer," she said. "I can mix paint well and do backgrounds, but that's about all. Two thirds of this is Leonardo's work."

"That's not unusual," Leonardo said, "My old master Verrocchio often did even less. Of course it wouldn't have been possible to do so much in the time we had if it were not for your stabilizer. She made it in her credenza," he explained to Ezio. "Mixed half with linseed oil, it makes an excellent paint base for any pigment—and it dries completely if it's been put in the sun for a few hours."

"The long-strand molecules polymerize with exposure to UV radiation." she said absently.

"The what of what does what?" Ezio asked.

"I didn't understand that either," Leonardo admitted.

"Um...The compound first melts together and then hardens in sunlight. That's as good as I can do. Better still, the paint will now be waterproof, fire resistant, it won't change with time and it will never need revarnishing. A wet cloth will take off any dirt. You could even soak it in turpentine for a month without damage. Moreover, it's completely non-toxic. You could drink it in the liquid form if you wanted. Nasty taste, though." She set down her brush. "Now—look at it. Not as yourself, but as the Abbot of San Donato. Is it finished enough for _him_?"

"Hmmm. I—there's so much more I could do—." Leonardo regarded his painting.

"Not as yourself, remember?" she prompted.

"It will do." he shrugged.

"Good! All you need to do is put it out in the courtyard for the rest of the day and tomorrow you'll deliver it. While you take it outside, I'll get ready to explain why it is so important. Oh, is that my gown?" She pointed to the parcel Ezio had brought along.

"Yes, it is, madonna."

"Thank you! I'll just be a moment." She took her dress and left the room.

"Can you lend me a hand here?" Leonardo asked.

"Va bene," Ezio shrugged. Together they carried the wooden panel on which the Adoration was painted out into the sun. "So—everything has been all right with you two?"

"Better than all right! Ezio, I have found my muse. She may be a slave driver, but she is an inspiration. Wait until you see what a hair looks like under a microscope—or a drop of water or blood. I'm still working on increasing the magnification, but the things I've learned!"

"Really? That's good. What about Lorenzo? Did he accept the letter?"

"Yes, while hearing mass and looking over a design his architect drew up at the same time. He said he will be glad to receive Dottore Schiavone when the learned doctor reaches Firenze, but he wants his regular physician there to approve the course of treatment."

"Bene...So, the two of you seem pretty friendly. What form does this 'inspiration' take?"

"It's strictly intellectual, Ezio." Leonardo looked very serious when he said it. "Can we move this back a couple of feet? That way as the sun drops, the bottom half won't be in the shade."

Once they had adjusted the Adoration to the artist's satisfaction, the two young mortal men went back inside to find a lovely young lady of the circle Ezio had been wont to move in before his father and brothers' execution. She wore a rich brown brocade bodice and wool underdress over a chemise of snowy white, with a little matching cap on the back of her head trimmed with seed pearls. Gold ribbons were braided in her smooth dark hair. "Your tailor knows his trade, Ezio. I like how he covered the dagger hole with the brocade—and the blood doesn't show at all. Thank you."

"It was my pleasure, madonna. You still have a streak of paint, right there." He pointed to a spot on her temple.

"Oh!" She disappeared again.

"She cleans up nice," Ezio said, admiringly.

"Yes, she does, rather." Leonardo rubbed the back of his head in a rather embarrassed way, and Ezio caught where his friend's gaze went.

"Oh-ho, what's this?" Ezio seized on the small sheaf of sketches—all of which were of a female nude from several angles. They didn't show her face, but they did show certain features that were not hard to miss even when Ginevra was fully clothed. "I thought you said this was strictly intellectual!"

"It is! I rarely get the chance to draw from the nude—not living people, anyway, and Ginevra was kind enough to allow me. She makes a good model because she's not embarrassed or flirtatious—she's not self-conscious at all, in fact—and she can hold her poses much longer than anyone else because she doesn't get tired and achy. Of course the ideal nude would be less—less exaggerated in proportions, because it's considered in poor taste to show quite so..."

"For the same reasons statues of men are short-changed in certain areas, I know."

Being a heterosexual male, he had to look at a naked female whenever he saw one, it was just how he was made—but Ezio found after a moment that looking at a friend like that was uncomfortable. He was at heart a nice Italian boy, and certain women in his life were sacred to him, such as his mother and his sister. He respected the virtue of women who made it clear they had any, and confined his chasing to those who indicated they were potentially available. Ginevra had said as much the other evening when she spoke of Diana—and she reminded him of his sister in some ways. Slightly ashamed, he put the sketches back just in time for her return.

"Am I all right now?" she asked. Damp tendrils of hair showed at the edges of her face.

"As lovely as the dawn." he replied gallantly.

"Which isn't saying much," she retorted, "as there are wet dawns and stormy dawns and dawns as cold as charity. But thank you all the same. Now—I promised an explanation."

She beckoned them to follow her to a large frame on the wall draped by a sheet. "What's that?" Ezio indicated the frame.

"She calls it a chalk-board," Leonardo told him. "It saves paper, because you can write or draw on it while working out ideas and then clean it off with a bit of wet cloth."

Taking hold of the sheet, she said, "There are two ways, as I see it, to go about changing the future. The first way is to disrupt certain important events, and the second is to make lasting changes of benefit to humanity in general." She pulled the sheet away to show a large piece of slate with diagrams chalked on it, divided with a line drawn down the middle.

The left side read: 1492. Pivotal Year: Lorenzo de Medici dies. Christoffa Corombo crosses Atlantic and 'discovers' 'new' continent. Rodrigo Borgia becomes Pope.

"What?" Ezio started violently. "Borgia becomes Pope?"

"Yes. I see you know something about him, but whatever you know, it pales in comparison with what is to come. Throwing orgies in the Vatican involving every prostitute in Rome is bad enough, considering, but when he divvies up the world for colonization between Spain and Portugal he gives the conquerors permission to enslave the native population—so they can be made into good Christians. Never mind the exploitation, degradation and abuses that are then inflicted on them. Not to mention his son Cesare—the apple doesn't fall far from the tree there. He'll break his word as easily as he breaks bread, and almost as frequently."

"Stop," Ezio cried out, his head pounding. "Just for a moment. I—I need to take this in. Borgia becomes Pope. Slavery of the population. The Apple—. It all fits. It has to."

"What's wrong?" Leonardo was looking at him.

"Rodrigo Borgia is the head of the Templars." Ezio said. "Never mind going to the Palazzo Medici. That can wait for now. My uncle _has_ to hear this."

* * *

A/N: Well, that last chapter went over like a lead balloon—nobody had anything to say about it at all, good or bad. Was it the sex, or what? Christoffa Corombo is Christopher Columbus, as he would have spelled it in his time.


	8. Sysopbitglitch

The creators of the Animus had long ago noted that each subject living out an ancestor's memories experienced them a little differently. In some subjects' memories, Ezio barely managed to beat Federico to the top of San Trinita, while in others, Ezio beat him by several seconds. Sometimes Ezio would hug Leonardo back at a certain point in his memories of Venice, and other times, he left da Vinci there looking embarrassed. And then there were the variations on kills—the weapon and exact location varied from subject to subject. And then there was the question of desynchronization, where the subject actually experienced Ezio's death…. Only to go back to a previous point in the memory as if it had never happened.

The best minds at Abstergo had tried to work out why these seeming glitches occurred, and failed. It was a mystery, and would remain so. That was because they understood neither how time nor the universe worked. Any event with more than one possible outcome forced the universe to split into two or more alternative realities, like a large rock in a stream caused the current to split and flow around it. Usually the flow of time merged back together seamlessly, but when the event was too big—as for example, Ezio's death—the realities divided completely. Since Ezio could not have died without issue, because then he wouldn't have any descendants to relive his memories, the memory paradox caused it to desynchronize and dumped the subject back into the mainstream.

That was why when Ginevra appeared in a subject's memories, the Animus invariably crashed with the message '_**Irreconcilable exception error. Fatal paradox variation. Sysopbitglitch. Reload universe and redo from start**_.'

That was because from the point of view of the space-time continuum, Ginevra Schiavoni wasn't just a large rock in the stream. She was a mountain.

However, being unimaginative themselves, the Abstergo engineers decided that 'Ginevra' was probably only a dream or fantasy of Ezio's, or some kind of virtual feedback from the descendant's own brains. Upon reentering the Animus, the memory picked up with the beginning of Ezio and Leonardo's hair-raising wagon ride through the Apennine Mountains, and proceeded normally from there.

They would have been quite disturbed to learn that in those cases where Ginevra turned up, Abstergo _would never come to exist_.

* * *

A/N: A quickie—just for fun and hopefully to explain a few things. More very very soon.


	9. A Plague on Both Your Houses!

I hadn't expected such a dramatic response; Ezio looked as though he was ready to dash off to tell his uncle right away, dragging me along with him. However, it was already mid-afternoon and Monteriggioni was at least forty miles away, which meant at the least a very long day's travel on horseback, or two even longer days walking. Not to mention that I had more to say.

"I don't know of any connection between Rodrigo Borgia and the Templars," I said, carefully, "and I can only speak of what I know. The facts are these: while Lorenzo de Medici lives, there is peace among the city-states. Once he dies, Borgia will have no real opposition. With his initial approval, the King of France will sweep down from the north to assert his claim to the throne of Naples and anything else he fancies. Piero, Lorenzo's heir, will cringe to France and offer money to make the bad man go away and not bother Firenze. Once Borgia realizes France is serious, he'll be put on the spot… and then make his second son Giovanni Captain-General of the Papal forces, over his older son Cesare's head.

" Cesare will have Giovanni killed. Tediously predictable. Rodrigo promotes him to Captain-General anyway, and then things go from bad to worse. When and as the papal states rebel, Cesare will quash them back down. Rodrigo will then make him a Duke and give him the lands in his own right, stealing lands that belong to the church and not to any individual.

"Borgia exists only to enrich Borgia, but Cesare will spend money faster than Rodrigo can rake it in. So Papa takes to poisoning cardinals and confiscating their estates in order to keep up. Finally, in 1503, someone will slip a nice big dose of cantarella into their wine—not nearly soon enough, but unfortunately not quite enough. Rodrigo will die of it. The venetian ambassador will write that when dead, Borgia makes "the ugliest, most monstrous and horrible dead body that was ever seen, without any form or likeness of humanity."

"His corpse will turn black and swell up until it won't fit into his coffin, and they'll have to jump up and down on the body to force him in. Cesare will survive for four more years, bouncing from prison to exile and back again, trying to get back what he lost. He'll fail, and his death on the battlefield will be as satisfyingly terrible as one could wish."

"Perhaps he'll meet a more suitable end now, before he can start." Ezio growled. "Madonna, do you know where he is? Now, in this year?"

"Yes," I replied. "Most probably he's living on an estate on the outskirts of Rome. Assassinating him now will make for an interesting moral dilemma, though."

"Why is that?" Leonardo asked; he had been listening as intently as his friend, although with less personal involvement. I wondered how he would take it if I told him he would wind up working for Cesare. Designing war machines would, I knew, make him very unhappy.

"Because right now, Cesare isn't quite five years old." That threw Ezio.

"Not even five years old?" he exclaimed, "That isn't—I can't assassinate a child."

"Not even one who you know will grow into a monster?" I asked. "He'll be a particularly beautiful and winning child, too. As an adult, he'll be a very handsome man—cultured, witty, brilliant, charming, and a complete sociopath." Monsters rarely look like monsters, and Cesare would indeed be handsome— until he contracted syphilis, that is. Eventually he'd take to wearing a mask to cover up the sores.

"What's a sociopath?" Leonardo asked.

"Someone who cares about nothing and no one except himself. Someone who shows a pervasive and persistent disregard for, and violation of, the rights of others. Someone completely lacking in remorse and empathy. What they want, they must have, right away, regardless of the consequences." I explained.

"No. I can't execute a child. He hasn't done anything—yet. But maybe if—I don't know." Ezio thought out loud.

"While you're considering the implications," I said, "I will conclude by saying that while these events have disastrous consequences, I don't know what will happen if we prevent them. Lorenzo will have serious financial difficulties towards the end of his life, which can't help but shrink his sphere of influence—and he has to die eventually. I can treat his gout, but I can't make him immortal. If Corombo doesn't discover the New World, it's inevitable that someone else will. Whoever becomes Pope in Borgia's place may be even worse."

"I have a hard time believing that," Ezio retorted.

"I agree, but it's theoretically possible." I replied. "Now, as for the other half of the board-."

On the other side, I had written:

**Pure water**

**Fleabane**

**Moldy food**

**Oil of vitriol distilled in combination with pure alcohol**

**Soap and alcohol**

**Cowpox**

"What does that mean?" Leonardo asked. "It looks like the ingredients for a spell or some alchemical formula."

"It does, doesn't it?" I agreed. "These are, although they do not appear it, all things which will improve life significantly for society as a whole and save the lives of untold millions. I chose simple things, things which are possible now.

"Imagine a Firenze where there is no fear of plague or pestilence, where smallpox is unknown, where the streets are clean and free of garbage and the gutters don't teem with rats. The Arno smells like water instead of excrement, offal, and industrial waste. This isn't some dream of an alabaster city undimmed with human tears, but our Florence, the one outside the window.

"Suppose that a small boy playing carelessly in the street, falls and has his arm run over by a cart. It's broken, badly; the bones are sticking out through the flesh and he's bleeding. He's rushed to a doctor, screaming and thrashing. What options does that doctor have, in terms of treatment?" I asked them

"He can get out the bone saw and amputate, or he can call a priest in for the Last Rites—or both." Ezio stated, accurately.

"That's as it is now. Imagine instead that the doctor takes out a square of clean cloth, wets it with a pungent liquid, and puts it over the boy's nose and mouth. The vapors from the cloth first make his head spin; then the pain goes away, and finally he falls into a deep, tranquil sleep. Next the doctor puts on a clean white coat and washes his hands, first with soap and water and then with alcohol. He cleans the injured arm with more alcohol and sets the bone back in place. He puts a long, thin metal pin in to hold the bone together.

"Then taking instruments that have been boiled clean since they were last used, and stitches the flesh back together. He mists the wound with alcohol before he closes it, and sprinkles on a fine reddish powder which will keep rot from setting in. He stitches the skin shut and puts an ointment on it, before bandaging it with clean cloth. He binds the arm to splints of wood so the bone won't move, and then he removes the cloth from the boy's nose and mouth. Then he sends his patient home with medication to control the pain and prevent infection and tells them to bring him back if there is any sign of trouble." I was simplifying the process for brevity.

"Two months later, he removes the pin and the splints, and the arm is as good as new. This is not some fantasy. This is not an image of a far off future. This is possible here and now. First, there's clean water. You've built a microscope and seen for yourself what lives in a droplet of municipal water from a public fountain, Leonardo."

"Yes! Ezio, it's like a tiny world. There are plants and animals too small to see. It's incredible!"

"And potentially deadly. I know people blame disease on bad smells and bad air, miasmas that we breathe, and they're right about there being a connection. When you have a bad smell that means something is rotting, and when something is rotting, you have bacteria feasting on it and multiplying like crazy, and bacteria, among other things, can sicken and kill. The bacteria get into the ground water, and from there into the water supply. People don't make the connection between contaminated air and contaminated water because they literally can't see it with the naked eye.

"The answer is to separate the waste disposal system from the fresh water supply system, to clean garbage off the streets and not use rivers and streams as both sewers and water sources. Don't put the cesspit next to the well, in other words. The larger the city, the worse the problem.

"The next item on the list is fleabane, which is a common wildflower, even a weed. It works hand in hand with having clean streets and clean water. Garbage attracts rats. Rats have fleas. Fleas carry the plague. Fleas jump onto other animals, including people, and bite them, infecting them with the plague. Which, by the way, killed off a third of the population of the entire world. Get rid of the garbage, and you reduce the rats. Reduce the rats and you reduce the fleas. Use a preparation of fleabane to keep off the rest of the fleas, and the plague goes away. It's simple—so simple it's childish.

"Next on the list—moldy food. You've heard of Monte Vesuvio, I hope?" They nodded, and I continued. "In 79 AD, Vesuvio erupted, burying the towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum, killing hundreds of people and burying them in many feet of ash. Their bodies decomposed, but the cavity in the ash and their skeletons remained. In one hundred and twelve years, they will be rediscovered, and in another four centuries after that, scientists will discover from looking at their bones that while the citizens of Pompeii and its sister city suffered from many of the ailments to which flesh is heir, for some reason they showed almost no signs of suffering from infections.

"Upon further investigation, the scientists will discover that in and among their food stores were figs and pomegranates which had traces of a particular mold on them. That mold has the particular property of killing bacteria—that's what we call an antibiotic. People ate their slightly moldy fruit and cured themselves of any infectious diseases without knowing it. That mold can be cultured in a broth of over ripe fruit and stale bread, then made into a medicine which will cure bacterial infections.

"What you call oil of vitriol is actually sulfuric acid. When distilled with pure alcohol, it makes a liquid called ether. Ether gives off a vapor. When inhaled, that vapor will first make a person euphoric, then deaden them to pain before rendering them unconscious. It's called anesthesia, which means 'without pain'. Once unconscious, a doctor can perform surgery on a patient without pain. He can extract teeth, deliver babies, remove tumors—and with the help of antibiotics and the next item on the list, without fear of infection setting in.

"Soap and alcohol kill bacteria. That's why people who drink only watered wine don't get sick from bad water. Washing your hands with soap and water after relieving yourself will prevent a lot of illnesses, and washing an injury with alcohol will kill the bacteria on and in the wound.

"Finally, there is cowpox. Smallpox is one of the most deadly diseases in the world, but it needn't be. It kills one in three of every person who gets it, and where it doesn't kill outright, it scars, deforms, disfigures and blinds. Do you know what group of people never get smallpox? Milkmaids. Milkmaids don't get smallpox because they catch cowpox from the animals they milk. Our bodies' natural defenses have long memories. Once they fight off an intruder disease, they stay armed against that intruder for many years to come. Cowpox is like—like the younger brother of smallpox, related but not as strong. To the body's defenses, they look alike, so a person who has had cowpox is protected from smallpox for twenty years. The process of building a protection against a disease by exposing someone to a weaker or dead version of that disease is called inoculation or vaccination. Tetanus, smallpox, rabies—even the plague—all these can be vaccinated against. Smallpox is the easiest. Smallpox was the first. For all that the Borgias are monsters, they are only human. Imagine assassinating an entire disease, Ezio. _It can be done_."

I paused, out of breath. "And now I need something to drink. My throat is parched."


	10. You Need a Husband

From The Annals of the Court of King Henry VIII for 1537: When in October of this year, Queen Jane was brought to bed and delivered of our lord Prince Edward on the twelfth, she afterward fell ill of childbed fever on the eighteenth, and her life was despaired of by the twenty-third. All the Royall physicians were sent for, and none, not even the king's favorite doctor, William Butt, could reduce the fever or relieve her pains.

Then the Ambassador of Florence, come to court to press for the repayment of a loan made to the king's grandfather King Edward IV by the Medici, did offer the services of his own physician, who had studied The Treatise of Doctor Schiavoni, which was unheard of in England until that time.

In accordance with said Treatise, the Italian doctor did prepare a broth of what he called 'th' Manna-Dew or Mildew of God', which has the property of curing diverse infections and fevers, and within two hours, the Queen's fever dropped as no English doctor had ever known of in a living person, and within four, she spoke for the first time in days, and took nourishment.

Seeing how his lady wife was so benefited by the Italian Physick, King Henry consulted the Florentine doctor on the treatment of a great ulcer on his legs. The doctor said he could cure him, but the abscesses must be drained surgically. The king's physicians were in opposition, for such lancing had been tried previously with no success, causing his Majesty pain to no purpose, but the Italian doctor said, his method was according to the Treatise, and he had besides the Water of Lether, the vapors of which would allow the King to sleep deeply and painlessly through the surgery.

The outcome of all of it is, that the debt to the Medici is paid in full, the Queen's life preserved, the King hale and active once more, and the Treatise of Doctor Schiavoni is to be translated and printed in English. Once it is, no physician shall be allowed to practice in England until he can prove he has studied the Italian Phyick and can make both the Broth of Manna-dew and the Water of Lether…..

Ezio set out fot Monteriggioni two mornings later, Ginevra riding pillion behind him on the horse, holding onto his waist with one arm and onto her credenza with the other. "Be ready to jump down in case of trouble," he advised her as they set off into the Tuscan countryside.

"Do you run into a great deal of trouble?" she asked.

"Enough," he stated.

"I don't suppose you'd care to explain that, would you?" When he didn't answer, she said, "No? All right. …It's been a long time since I rode a horse."

"Why is that?"

"It's made illegal," she said, matter-of-factly. "Exploitation of, and abuse of, an animal is illegal."

"What? What does that mean?"

"It means everyone will eschew meat, like Leonardo, only it will be by law and not by choice. No riding horses, no keeping pets, no milk or cheese, no honey, no wearing leather or wool—."

"You're joking." Ezio said.

"I only wish I were. A lot of things which should be a personal matter are illegal or immoral in the future. Like being fat or hugging a child that isn't your own. It's like being accused of heresy, only it applies to every aspect of your life and not just your thoughts on God."

"I don't think I'm going to like this future of yours," Ezio predicted.

"With any luck, it won't be the same future," she sighed. "I already made one tiny change. Leonardo finished that Adoration-which he would never have done otherwise. I...went too far the other day." It was not a question. It was a statement.

"No, not at all," Ezio lied. "You just told us...too much to take in all at once." Her intensity had been disconcerting. It had transformed her, in fact, from a pretty-in-an-ordinary-way girl into a...well, it was hard to say what. A fierce martyr shining with a holy light, beautiful but eerie? Not the wryly funny, sisterly friend she had rapidly been becoming. It was one thing to say 'Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.', when you were talking about God and about killing people, but changing the world as she was proposing...

He didn't say what he was thinking, however. Instead, he asked. "How would you tell people about the things you know, and have them believe and understand? People don't like change. If you just say to all these doctors that everything they know is wrong, and they should do it this way, they're going to resist."

"I know. Especially considering the source. Fortunately, 'I' won't be telling them. My father, the most learned Doctor Sigismundo Schiavoni, left behind a book where he explains, in great detail, all his discoveries and experiments with instructions on how to duplicate them. Since he's dead, he becomes, de facto, an authority, not a rival."

"But you don't have a father so he left no such book," he pointed out.

"Which was most villano of him, too. That means I shall have to write it myself," she mock-complained. "I've been planning it out in my head. It will partly be the story of his life and what drove him, and the details are giving me trouble."

"What details are those?" Ezio asked.

"To start with, there's me. Unless I sprang from his forehead full grown like Athena did from Zeus' head-which I think people would have a hard time believing-he must have had a wife so that I would have a mother."

"He wouldn't have to have a wife for that," Ezio teased.

"I know that, stulto!" He was rewarded by a playful little slap on the ear, which almost toppled her off the horse. "Whoops! I will have you know that Dottore Schiavoni was a virtuous man inspired by his faith who sought to emulate Christ through healing and lived by the credo 'I, the doctor, may treat, but God cures.' That's how I mean to get this book past the Church."

"Very clever, Madonna. If you have that worked out, what's so difficult about your mother?" Ezio asked.

"She will have died when I was six, I think, but I don't know how. Not of an illness or in childbirth, because that would reflect poorly on his skills as a physician. Do you have any ideas? You were so resourceful at coming up with that story the other day."

By the time they stopped at mid-day, they had decided that Ginevra's mother's horse had slipped while she was trying to ford a river during the spring floods, and that unfortunate and much-mourned lady drowned, her body not being recovered until several days later. They tethered the horse by a stream in a spot where he could graze or drink as he chose, and sat under a tree. As it was a warm day, Ezio put his hood back, and Ginevra untied her detachable over-sleeves. Their lunch was cold chicken stuffed with dried apricots, wheat grains, and pine nuts, washed down with a soft pale wine. Bees drowsed in the wildflowers, and in the tree a linnet tried out a few liquid notes of song.

Against the image of rural loveliness, a peasant led a slat-sided mule past them on the road, cursing the mule and belaboring it with the leather leading reins. It was not the misused animal's fault; it wheezed as it tried to drag an overladen (and overfragrant) manure cart. Ezio was reminded of what Ginevra had said earlier, about the exploitation and abuse of animals. Perhaps there was something to it after all...

The man eyed them as he passed, perhaps because they were conspicously better dressed than most people he saw in the course of a day, or perhaps because of Ginevra's well-filled bodice. He could not have seen how well equipped Ezio was in the way of weaponry, or he might have concealed his interest better. Heavily armed men have a way of commanding respect.

Ezio was not aware how silent he had become until Ginevra said, "Quadrini for your thoughts, Ezio?" and tossed a copper at him.

It landed in the pouch of his hood. "Hey!" He leapt up and squirmed until it fell down the back of his neck and got caught somewhere in his clothes. She laughed at him.

"So you think that's funny, do you?" He dipped up a handful of water from the stream and flicked it at her.

"No, you'll spot the silk!" she protested. "That's enough."

"All right." he said. "If you must know, I was thinking that you need a husband."

"What?" She snorted with laughter. "Where did that caprice come from? You need to send it back."

"I'm serious!" he said. "When I thought of your treating Lorenzo's gout, I only thought of relieving the suffering of one who has been a friend to my family for many years, and of finding you a home and a position. I had no idea it was so important that Lorenzo live and that you were so important. Lorenzo's wife, Lady Clarice, comes from a very pious and traditional family. You're a young, unmarried girl-or at least you look it. If you enter the Medici household, she'll look after you like you were her kin-if she lets you see or talk to me or Leonardo, it'll only be in a group of other ladies. There won't be any chance to talk freely. Married women have more freedom. That's why I say you need a husband." They had both gotten up and were putting away the remains of their lunch.

"That won't work, Ezio. First, married women only have as much freedom as their husbands choose to give them. Second, even if you were to find me a husband who would let me run around with two handsome young men, no questions asked, I can't give him sons. Or daughters. That's something Dr. Zeus takes from us-I wish they took away the longing as well. Even if he didn't want children, I have no name and no dowry. I can't marry."

"Well-I don't suppose you and Leonardo-after all, you are his muse."

She snorted with laughter again. "No. _Not_ me and Leonardo. I'm his _platonic _muse. A physical relationship would sully the font of inspiration. Not to mention certain other problems."

"But if I could find someone-?" Ezio asked.

"If you could find someone willing to overlook all my shortcomings and give me my freedom, _and_ provided he isn't vicious-then what the hell. I'd do it. It'd be a new experience." She strode off to get the horse, grumbling under her breath.

* * *

A/N: As anyone who's studied the life of Henry the Eighth (or just watched The Tudors) knows, his third wife, Jane Seymour died of complications following childbirth. The opening passage was made up by me to illustrate how history could be changed. The Manna-dew is penicillin and the Water of Lether, is, of course, ether.

Hey, if anyone has anything to comment on, it's kind of lonely in here. I got only one review for the last three chapters. Not one each, one total. Dropping chapter after chapter into a void is discouraging.

J. Tyler


	11. Tripwires, real and metaphoric

I braced myself for the next suggestion-that _we_ should get married, but it didn't come. Inwardly I smiled. At barely twenty, he might be willing to stick his friend's head into the matrimonial noose-poor choice of words, given how he had lost his family- for the sake of the greater good, but he wasn't about to stick his own. Actually, I was relieved that Ezio didn't pop the question, because since I had in a moment of Theobromos-induced madness, privately appointed myself the guardian and protector of his descendants. I coud hardly do that if he had no children, and if he married me, he wouldn't-not born in wedlock, anyway.

"You may scoff now, madonna, but I _will _find you a husband," he called after me.

"I think you're seriously underestimating how difficult it will be," I threw back at him, quite certain he wouldn't find any man willing. "Unless it's a deathbed marriage where he's out to cheat his heirs, and there are plenty of easier ways to do that."

Believe it or not, we cyborg operatives of Dr. Zeus do, very occasionally, marry mortals with the blessing of the Company—if said marriage will be for the benefit of the stockholders in some way, or move a mission forward. The mortal spouse never knows the score, of course. If the relationship is going to continue for any great length of time, the cyborg spouse has to age themselves cosmetically and eventually 'die'. I've known immortals who have done that. Some of them hated the person they were married to, but others—others found happiness and fulfillment with their mortal spouses. Some raised families through adoption (or looked the other way if their mortal wives got outside help).

But sooner or later it always ended, with death, or divorce, or reassignment. We cannot lift our mortal loved ones up to the heights of Olympus with us, we cannot petition Papa Zeus to give them the gift of eternal life. I suppose one could pump them up with pineal tribantine three, customize a chromosome repair kit for their phenotype, reengineer biomechanicals for their DNA, and keep them alive and young for a few more centuries—but immortality without computer augmented memory is problematic. After about two hundred years, the brain gets so filled up that the ability to think starts breaking down. Let's not even think about what happens if the body develops an allergy to its own RNA, and if an immortal doesn't also have unbreakable bones, then the ability to heal so damn fast is a distinct disadvantage. If it's not set perfectly immediately, then the broken ends start growing randomly, trying to reach each other and knit. The result is disfiguring and painful.

Vampires have it easy. A little nip, a quick slice there, an exchange of blood, and they've made a companion for eternity. If only….

Sometimes cyborgs 'marry' each other—not officially, of course. It's not allowed. We don't own ourselves, and rarely get to choose where we're assigned or who we're assigned with, but some people do fall in love and make vows to one another. Sometimes that love lasts centuries. I knew someone who had such an arrangement, another Art Preserver. Her name was Nancy, Nan for short. She was born in sub-Saharan Africa in the early 16th century, and she fell in love with a Marine Salvage Specialist named Kalugin. They were happy together, truly happy, and if they had to be apart for months and years at a stretch, then their reunions were all the sweeter for it.

Then he disappeared. No one knows where to; he wasn't even found at the Center for Punitive Medicine, where it was discovered that a very, very old operative named Marco had gone insane and was experimenting on other operative he had kidnapped. His inventiveness put even Mengele to shame. At least that was the story they put about—that Marco had been acting alone and not with orders from Dr. Zeus to find a way to kill or deactivate us permanently.

But that's another story and has nothing to do with Ezio's naive suggestion that I needed a husband.

We got back on the horse. "Maybe I should just go to Rome and set up as a courtesan," I speculated. "Not a courtesan della citta on the streets or in a brothel, but a courtesan onesta, with my own residence and a very small circle of wealthy clientele. The right cosmetics, clothes and jewels would kick me up a few notches on the glamor scale, and I'm already well-educated, witty and intelligent, if I do say so myself. No one could say I don't have the figure for it-and after all, I won't get old, saggy, wrinkly, or fat. I'd need some stake money to get set up, though."

"What!" Ezio spluttered, "Why would you want to do that?"

"Some of those women are extremely influential in Church politics. The right word whispered into the right ear during an intimate moment-and Borgia's career could be scuttled."

"But what about Lorenzo?"

"I'm only teasing! I wouldn't want to risk having to have Borgia as a client-the thought alone disgusts me." I reassured him.

"Well, don't joke like that. It isn't funny." Ezio scolded me. He sounded like a brother already. Not that I knew what it was like having a brother.

We continued on, the road leading us down hill into a ravine with large rocks scattered around on either side. It was a prime place for an ambush, and if I wasn't mistaken...

"Ezio, there are several mortal men hiding among those boulders ahead of us down there," I said, sotto voce in his ear.

"Templars!" he exploded. I hoped there really was something to his anti-Templar complex and it wasn't just irrational paranoia on his part.

"No. Not soldiers or guards, I don't think-I don't hear metal the way I would if they were in armor with blades or mauls. I think they're locals looking to add to their income with some free-lance robbery."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "I can't see through rock with Eagle Vision."

"Look at the ground-there's bits of manure that had to have come off that cart which passed us during lunch." I could smell it _very_ clearly.

"Just a bunch of peasants," he brooded. "I wouldn't dirty my blade on them. Can you hang on if I gallop through?"

"Yes."

"Va bene." He kicked the horse, and we got a jackrabbit start-but since I couldn't see around him, I didn't see the tripwire they had strung up across a narrow part of the path, and neither did he. The horse stumbled, and we went flying, credenza and all.

Thanks to my augumented reflexes, I landed like a cat, on all fours, and kicked out, sweeping the nearest bandit off his feet. Writhing up, I chopped the next one in the Adam's apple with the side of my hand. Then another one grabbed me from behind. Meanwhile, Ezio was laying into them for all he was worth. He had abandoned the idea of not using edged weapons, but as certain armies learned throughout history, just banning peasants from owning weapons was pointless. Peasants had access to all sorts of tools and equipment like, oh, pitchforks, billhooks, axes, shovels, and so on which happened to be just as good as, if not better than, swords and pikes.

I whipped my head back into the solar plexus of the one behind me and gave his friend in front of me a pizeoelectric shock through my fingertips, effectively inducing a grand mal seizure. He fell to the ground, babbling, twitching, and spasming, and that's about all I have to say about that fight because it was over. The would-be bandits fled, leaving behind a quantity of blood and a few unconscious fellows.

Ezio was giving me the stink-eye. " And I told you to be prepared to jump down in case of trouble! You might have told me you would be prepared for it!" I guess knights errant don't like for their damsels in distress to be, well, not distressed.

"And you could have told me what sort of trouble you're likely to run into, so I think the one cancels out the other. Is the horse all right? And where did my credenza go?"

"Oh..." Distracted, he headed down the ravine looking for our four-footed transportation, and I spotted the credenza down a gully lined with jagged stones prepared to tear my stockings into pieces. I ungartered them-they were only knee -length,after all and slipped them off. Better that my skin should suffer-it would mend on it own. Kirtling my skirts up, I went down after the only existing computer in the world-but then I hadn't encountered a Piece of Eden as yet.

"Where did you go?" Ezio called. I could see him silhouetted against the sky, the horse at his side. "There you are. Do you need help-? Wait, that's a stupid question, isn't it?" Perhaps he realized how petty he sounded, because he gave me a hand getting back on my feet. "I'm...I'm sorry. The way you move, though-is that something else they do to you?"

"Yes. It costs a great deal of money to make one of us-what we are, and every moment we're out of active service due to damage, they count as money lost. So they enhance our reflexes and strength, so we can get out of dangerous situations." I sat down on a rock and put my stockings back on while I spoke.

"Could you have taken them all on, all by yourself?" He turned away while I had my calves exposed, checking over the horse's limbs instead of mine.

"No. If you hadn't been there, I would have run for it."

"Da vero? Could you outrun the pack of them?" he asked.

"Easily." I slipped my shoes back on.

"Show me," Ezio challenged.

I looked around for a suitable demonstration, and saw a wildflower growing from a crevice in a rock a few yards away. "Do you see that cluster of cornflowers, there?"

"Si-." I was back with the flowers before he finished speaking. "Wha-How did you do that? I didn't even see you move!"

"It's called hyperfunction. I can't keep it up for very long. More than five minutes at top speed exhausts my strength for at least a day." I explained.

"What if I were to throw a knife at you?" He asked.

"Do it and watch." I suggested. "Don't go easy on me, either. Make it a real challenge."

"If you say so..." Slipping a throwing knife from his belt, he took aim and let fly, hard and fast.

I clapped my hands together and caught it between my palms, flat.

He shook his head. "If you say you're trained in assassination, too, I'm giving it up."

"No. We're not. I'm not. In fact, I can't kill, not even in self-defense or defense of another. Still another thing they do to us-if I were to try, if I were even to think about it seriously too hard, I would first have attacks of panic, then a seizure, and then I would black out. They are afraid of us, our makers, our masters."

"How do they do these things to you?" he wondered.

"They open up our heads and snake wires through our brains so fine you couldn't even see a glint of light off them. They put in devices that record everything we see and say and do-if they could, they'd record our very thoughts. They replace our bones-and you don't want to know what they take out to make room for everything. You truly don't." My voice was gaining a brittle edge. "I wear an intangible collar-I may have slipped my chain by chance, but it's still there. Don't go thinking that what I can do, what I am, is a gift-it isn't. Nothing's free, especially not immortality. But I'm going too far again, aren't I?" I said, looking at his expression. "I'm sorry."

"No. It's all right."

"It isn't, but it's...what it is. Now let's get back on that horse and see if we can make Monteriggioni before supper-and while we go, you can tell me about how you became an assassin." I put on a more cheerful voice.

"Hey! I never said I was an assass-."

"Oh, yes, you did. You said if I was an assassin, you'd have to give it up. So give it up! I mean, tell me about it."

"You sure are nasty sometimes..."

* * *

A/N: Thank you, TenshiReike, Rhivanna and Keet for your reviews. I'm so glad you're out there.


	12. Monteriggioni

By cutting across country for a few miles, they reached Monteriggioni as the sun took on an orange tone. Leaving the horse in the stables by the front gate, Ezio and Ginevra entered the town and started up the incline toward the Auditore villa.

"There are bigger towns and wealthier towns and towns that are closer to the city," he explained as he waved a hand at the famous city walls with the fourteen towers, "and _maybe_ Montepulchiano is prettier, but Monteriggioni is the most defensible. The whole town is a castle. Perhaps I am inclined to judge it favorably, but I think it is a very handsome place as well." The buildings were made from the local stone, and they looked their best in the late afternoon light.

"I agree; I would call it harmonious and well-proportioned, " she said, looking around. "There seems to be a lot of work on the buildings going on."

"Yes. My uncle keeps the wall and the towers maintained, but with him being away so much when the company has contracts, the rest of the town got a bit run down. I'm paying to have some renovations done. See the tailor's shop there?" Ezio pointed to the open storefront with its selection of fabrics from basic linens and wools to a few fine silks and velvets. "I paid for that. If I can, I'm going to add another story. And I know of an art merchant who might relocate. If he does, that's the building he'll have. The doctor and the blacksmith have been here all along, but they could both expand."

"I see," she said with evident approval. "This is a whole new facet of your character-the responsible landowner. You are your uncle's heir, I take it?"

"I-don't know, actually. We've never talked about it. There aren't many of us Auditore left, so I don't know who it would be, if not me. If so, then I hope it isn't for many, many years. Uncle Mario has been very good to us."

"You're very lucky. What are the buildings with the colored banners? Not the shops, I mean the ones with pennants on the towers as well."

"The blue belongs to the mercenary barracks. My uncle keeps the company together even when he doesn't have a contract. That way they stay in training and he knows where to find them when he needs them."

"Doesn't the presence of that many soldiers strain the community?" she asked as they headed up the main street.

"It could," he admitted, "but that's why we have the building with the rose banners. It's the brothel. Since a man with money and with no wife is going to go looking for pleasant company, my uncle thought it better that they find professionals than go after the daughters of the townspeople. They pay their taxes and their rent, but where my uncle really rakes it in is through wine sales. He owns the vineyards."

"Very practical of him...I think. What does the village priest think of this arrangement?"

"I'm sure he'd rather they were in some other line of work, but he would probably say the same of the mercenaries-and of me, for that matter. The girls are some of his most faithful churchgoers."

"I'm sure they have a great deal to confess, and that alone ought to keep him in business." she said, wryly.

Ezio laughed. "Just a moment, I need to talk to the blacksmith." He unbuckled his spaulders and chest guard, then handed them across the counter.

"More repairs, Ser? Ah, I see. You got to trade up to metal, ser, you truly should. You're awful hard on your gear...and what about that sword? Doesn't it need sharpening?"

"Very likely," He handed it over as well. "Can I see that cinquedea again, the one you showed me last time?" The blacksmith took down a long dagger, wide as a hand at the base of the blade and about a foot long, for Ezio's approval.

"Hmmm...How much did you say this was, again?"

The blacksmith named a price. "Oww," Ezio winced. "What if I were to pay to put an upper floor on this building? Then what?"

"I could see my way to another five percent off-perhaps."

"I'll see what I can do," He handed the weapon back, hilt first, and turned to go.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" the smith prompted him.

"Like what?" the young Assassin countered.

"Like this." The smith rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together in the gesture for money that had probably existed since coins were first invented.

"You don't trust me?" Ezio touched his chest, an incredulous expression on his face.

"No credit, sir, not for you or anyone. The bank and I have a deal-they don't make weapons and I don't make loans."

With much exasperated eye-rolling, Ezio counted out a handful of coins.

"I'll just count this again," the smith said.

"It's all joking," he said to Ginevra when he turned back to her. "After all, he knows where to find me and he could always collect from my uncle or my sister."

"I could tell. What about the green banners?" Ginevra pointed.

"Those belong to-an association of professionals who locate...things, information, sometimes people. Sometimes even when they're not lost. My uncle says he couldn't do without them."

"You mean it's a thieves' guild?" she looked up at him, a little smile fraught with mischief spreading the corners of her mouth.

"If you want to put it that way, yes."

"I'm looking forward to meeting this uncle of yours. I'm not sure whether he's a enlightened and progressive civic leader or a reprehensible old scoundrel, but I think I like him already either way."

Ezio laughed. "And I look forward to introducing you, but I also want to talk to him first."

They had reached the stairs, and Ginevra paused a moment to dip her hands in the fountain. "You can wash up properly, with soap and towels inside." Ezio offered.

"I'll take you up on that. Thanks."

"My pleasure, madonna." He led her up past the training circle, where two mercenaries were sparring in padded practice armor. Several townspeople (and one or two harlots, their hair already twisted up into the pair of yellow ribboned top-knots that marked their profession) were cheering or jeering at one or the other.

"Fall on your sword, solider, and put us out of our misery!" one called. So normal was the scene that Ezio didn't even notice how they turned to stare at him and his companion as they passed-the town gossip mills were already starting to grind.

Then she got her first good look at the house. "There it is, the Villa Auditore," Ezio told her, cheerfully. "Nice, isn't it?"

"Nice isn't quite the word," she said, and looking at her face, he saw an echo of the holy light that glowed in her when she talked about a world free from disease and pain. Apparently architecture was a lesser passion of hers. "It's a gem-a splendid example of a Tuscan Villa from the Early Renaissance-."

"From the what?" he asked.

"That's what this era will be called-the Renaissance. The proportions are perfect, there's not a trace of ostentation and no hideous cupids in sight. Please, tell me- the loggia in back, they're intact?"

"Yes, yes!" he told her, amused by her enthusiasm. "You can see them for yourself in a moment. Why so much feeling over a building you've just seen? I mean, it's not like it's your home, as it is mine."

"Because all we have is our work-from the beginning, we learn that the work is the only thing that matters. If we don't love our work, then we have nothing. Before anything else, I am a Preserver."

"Well, preserver, why not come in and meet the family?" Leaving Ginevra alone for a moment in the Great Hall, he looked for Claudia first in the studiolo, but for once she wasn't there. "Claudia?"

"In here!" she called from the dining room.

He found her scolding a maid about a damaged silver pitcher. "What makes it worse is that you tried to hide it. No, don't try to straighten it with your hands-! Wonderful. Now the handle's broken off. You're lucky I don't take this out of your wages-Oh, go cry it off in the kitchen. Silly girl," she told Ezio as the maidservant fled. "This is going to have to go to a silversmith in the city, I wouldn't trust the village smith with silver. Ezio, you'll have to take it with you next time you go." Two years his junior and eighteen, Claudia was pretty, sweet and docile-looking, yet was a holy terror with a will of steel under it.

"I will, I promise. Claudia, I've brought home a guest who may be staying with us for a while. I'm sorry I couldn't give you any notice."

"Oh, that's all right. It's not like I ever get to meet anybody or if anything ever happens here. If somebody's pig gets loose in the piazza, the whole town talks about it for a week. Who is it? Your friend Leonardo? I remember Mother liked him, before..."

"No, not Leonardo, but you're right. I'll ask him to come and stay sometime. Her name is Gine-." That was as far as he got.

"Her? You brought home a girl?" Claudia was past him and out in the hall almost as quickly as Ginevra could fetch a bouquet of cornflowers. It had to be a female thing and not just a...whatever it was that Ginevra was.

"Oh, hello!" Claudia was smiling, a little flustered, and while someone who didn't know her might think she was being nice, Ezio could tell there was a storm brewing on the horizon. "I'm sorry. Ezio didn't tell us he was bringing a guest, or I would be better prepared. I'm Claudia Auditore, Ezio's sister. And you are?"

"I'm Ginevra Schiavoni. Please, I must be the one to apologize. I don't want to intrude or put anyone to any trouble, but if your brother hadn't come to my aid, I don't know where I would be right now." Dirty from travel, disheveled from being thrown off a horse, her eyes reddened by dust, Ginevra looked like she was seeking refuge from something although it wasn't clear what.

"Ezio, what happened?" From bristling and defensive to sympathetic in a flash, Claudia turned to her elder sibling.

"Bandits," he summed up succinctly, and whispered in her ear, "her father's missing. He may be dead. Can you take care of her while I speak to Uncle? Where is he, anyway?"

"Uncle Mario is down the well with the architect. Here, madonna Ginevra, why don't you come sit down? Would you like some almond milk?"

"Down the well? What's he doing there?"

"You know how when the mines were reopened, there was a lot of water in them when there shouldn't be?" Claudia asked.

"Yes." Ezio replied.

"When they started to work on the well two days ago, they found there _wasn't_ a lot of water down there where there should be, so they're looking for the crack. Go talk to Uncle. I'll take care of Ginevra."

* * *

A/N: Thank you, Rosy the Cat!


	13. Mario Auditore

Leaving the villa by the front door, Ezio rounded the corner and called down the wide, marble walled well mouth. "Uncle? You down there?" It was the first time he'd had a look down the uncapped well, which didn't even have a puddle of water at the bottom. There was no sign of either Mario Auditore or the Architect.

"Ezio?" his father's brother's voice called back, echoing from somewhere unseen. "Just a moment..." To someone else he said, "It's been capped for as long as I can remember, but it's down on the plans as a well." He suddenly appeared at the bottom of the shaft, blinking up at the light. "Stand back, I'm coming up." With an agility which belied his fifty-odd years, Mario climbed up the inner wall almost as easily as his nephew might have done. The elder Auditore was tanned to the point where he looked as tough as old beef jerky, which he was, but a fishy-white dead eye (and the scar which explained it) gave his face a harsh, repellent aspect at odds with his genial good nature.

"What seems to be the trouble?" Ezio asked.

"There's a huge damn empty cavern down there with no more than six inches of water in the deepest spot. Must be another one of your great-great grandfather's secrets, but I don't know what it's for and I don't like it. We need a water supply that can't be cut off from the outside. If there's a siege, we'll be reduced to drinking our own pipi or horse blood within a week, and I don't fancy either."

"I can tell you the solution for that, uncle." Ezio couldn't suppress a smile.

"And what is that, nipote?"

"Lay in more wine, what else?" He shrugged. His uncle was known to be fond of the grape, although he never seemed the worse off for it.

"Hah! Very funny. However, you can't cook pasta in wine-well, I suppose you could, but what a waste of good wine! This is a problem that won't be solved today. What did you want to talk to me about?"

"I brought someone back with me this time. Her name is Ginevra Schiavoni and- um, I don't know how to explain this..."

Mario's face lit up with sudden comprehension. "Ah, so that's it, is it? I'm only surprised it hasn't happened before. It's all right, Ezio. I decided a long time ago that my brother's sons would be my heirs, and I'll be glad to see the next generation. When is she due? Not so soon the priest is embarrassed, I hope."

"What? No, no, it's nothing like that. I only met her ten days ago-although she does need a husband." An idea had just dawned on him. Uncle Mario didn't want sons of his own, for whatever reason. Uncle Mario wasn't vicious, and as an Assassin himself, he would understand why Ginevra would need her autonomy. Uncle Mario would be a perfect husband under the circumstances.

"Did he run off and leave her, or is he already married?" his uncle asked.

"No. It really isn't anything like that. Can we go somewhere more private?" Ezio asked, remembering Ginevra's uncannily sharp hearing.

"If you want to, sure. What about up in one of the towers?" Soon uncle and nephew were looking the windows of the nearest guard tower out over the fields of grain, the olive groves and vineyards of the region, all honey-ambered by the early evening light.

"Now, what is this all about?" Mario raised an eyebrow.

"It's like this..." Ezio related the tale of how he had met Ginevra, what she was, and what she meant, beginning with the stabbing and ending with, "...so I brought her here to explain it to you herself. If she were married to you, then... Why are you looking at me that way?"

Mario's face had gotten sterner and more serious all the while Ezio had been speaking, but he hadn't interrupted once. Now he took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. "Ezio-the term 'assassin' may come from 'hashishin' because once recruits were indoctrinated with hashish and mysticism, but Altair put a stop to that when he became head of the Assassins. And for good reason, too. What drugs may give quickly and for a short time, they erode and dull over the longer term. A true Assassin does not blunt his edge with the use of such substances."

"I haven't been using hashish or anything else!" his nephew protested. "Everything I've told you, she'll confirm. talk to her yourself. There she is now." He pointed to the path behind the villa, where Claudia was showing Ginevra the garden.

"_That's_ her?" Mario's brows went up in surprise. "That beautiful young girl?"

"Yes," Ezio confirmed. He would not have described Ginevra as beautiful, but he was wise enough to realize that Mario's tastes might differ and if he found her so, he would be more likely to want to marry her. "But she's older than she looks."

"Which would make her what? Eighteen instead of sixteen?" Mario stopped staring at her long enough to give Ezio a hard look.

"I don't know exactly how old she is," Ezio confessed. He had not been present when Ginevra told Leonardo her age, and only remembered that she said she had been born some time in the first half of the fourteenth century. "But in some ways she's very unworldly. She was talking about running off to Rome to become a courtesan onesta, but I'm not sure she knows what that would involve. I think she is too chaste to understand." he concluded, not knowing just how inaccurate his idea of her was.

"Ezio." His uncle gave him a Look.

"All right," he admitted, "she was joking when she said it. But the rest is true."

"I'll say now that I think her prediction about Lorenzo's death meaning the end of political stability and Borgia becoming Pope are very likely-but I also don't think it would take special knowledge of the future to say so. Setting that aside for a moment, your suggestion that I should marry her is a great big steaming mound of merde. It will never happen." Mario set his jaw in defiance.

"Why not? I thought it was a good idea."

"Because I am not dead, for one thing. Asking me to enter into a marriage of convenience with her would be like setting a nice big juicy bistecca in front of a hungry dog and ordering him to guard it without letting him have even a bite. Second, before you say it could be a real marriage, consider this: if she can treat Lorenzo's gout, he'll want to show his gratitude. Certainly he'd stump up a generous dowry and he might even go so far as to adopt her. He adopted his brother's bastard son, and the child's mother was an African slave. A girl like that is not going to want to marry an ugly, scarred-up one-eyed old dog of a soldier like me. If she did, she'd put horns on my head within a year. So put that out of your mind. No, no, and no."

"She's not like that, Uncle! What if you were to adopt her, then? So what? It's not that important! What is important-Wait, why am I arguing about this with you? Look at her with Eagle Vision."

Mario turned for another look, and froze. To Ezio's eyes, her weirdly enhanced bones shone through her skin, greenish and eerie, and he could only assume his uncle saw the same. "I've never seen that before," the elder Auditore allowed.

"So she _is_ something different. Uncle, the Templars are so many, so highly placed-and will be even higher if Borgia becomes Pope. They have more resources. Fighting them-I just finished getting rid of the last of the Pazzi conspirators, and now I find the trail leads to Venice. I'll go to Venice. I'll find out who they are. I'll hunt them down. But once I assassinate the Templars of Venice, then what? Siena? Rome? Sicily? They're like that monster from the labors of Hercules, the Hydra. Cut down one Templar, and two more spring up. Meanwhile, the only Assassins I know of are you and me. How many men are responsible for the deaths of my father and brothers? Where does it end? _**I**_ don't see where it ends."

A ringing silence filled the tower. Mario broke it. "Ezio, you're only twenty. When you're twice the age you are now—."

"Are you going to tell me I'll see things differently? That I'll be less impatient, less angry? That the questions will answer themselves?"

"No," Mario sighed again. "You'll have twice as many questions, half the energy, and less time to find the answers. Unless you open your eyes and see for yourself. Those Codex pages you've been collecting off the Templars and your friend Leonardo has been translating, the pages written by Altair concerning the Prophet—have you read them before posting them on the wall?"

"Yes. Two Pieces of Eden will come together, the Prophet will open the Vault, and Prophet will hearken to the Goddess Minerva—." Ezio had privately thought that Altair hadn't banned the use of hashish soon enough. A lot of the Codex was irrational rambling and fantasies, interspersed with very useful notes on assassination techniques and diagrams for advanced weapons.

"You should go back and take another look. Nowhere does it say that the Prophet will meet either a goddess or Minerva. It says that the prophet will hearken to the undying daughter of Jupiter, who will reveal the future of humanity. What was the name of the company you said made madonna Ginevra into what she is?"

"Uh—Dr. Zeus."

"And Zeus is the Greek name for Jupiter. Now I'm not saying I believe the prophecy is about that girl down there. In fact, this is so much of a coincidence that I don' t think it's a coincidence at all. Those pages were in the hands of the Templars for over a hundred years, and your friend Leonardo might not be the only one clever enough to have translated them. We know the Templars have at least one Piece of Eden, and Altair wrote about what a piece could do. Change time, for example, and extend life spans. We know they were the repositories of secret knowledge, and we know they can be used to manipulate the mind and alter perceptions."

"We also know they could drive men mad," Ezio said. "So, what you're saying, you think madonna Ginevra is a Templar? That everything she said is a lie and a deceit?" He was angry, but not certain who with.

"I think the Templars are crafty enough to take a girl and make her into an agent of theirs without her even knowing. If I were going to do something of that sort, she's the sort of person I would pick—irresistibly attractive, someone you want to trust, someone you want to like you in return. You said yourself she got you to tell her all about the Assassin Order, about your family—she even got you to bring her here. She could be unaware of what it is she's meant to do." Mario speculated.

"Or she could be just what she said she is," Ezio countered.

"Or she could be. The problem is, we don't know which."

"So what do you plan to do about her? Send her away?"

"No," Mario Auditore put a hand to his forehead, rubbing it. "If she's innocent, it would be wrong. If she's a Templar agent, it's risky, and if she is what she says, it would be wasteful and stupid. We can't assassinate her, not if she can take a blade to the lung and fall off a tower and be up and about two hours later. I need her where I can keep an eye on her, even though one eye is all I have. You win, nipote."

"I do?"

"You do. If she'll agree, I'll marry her." Mario looked more like he was considering his own execution.

"But what you said—."

"Forget what I said. My first reaction was that of a man. As an Assassin, I've come to a different conclusion. She can still have her freedom, but we'll have to hash out what that means. Come on, Ezio. It's time I met my bride."

* * *

A/N: Vocab words! Nipote=Nephew. Bistecca=Beefsteak. Merde=manure or shit. Pipi=urine. Putting horns on a man's head means that his wife has been unfaithful to him.

Thank you so much to my reviewers Rosy The Cat and Chichilla! I cannot express how much I appreciate hearing from somebody. I only wish it happened more often.


	14. The Unfairness Of It All

Should anyone think, upon reading this, that I was/am some kind of super-cyborg, capable of thwarting the Templars with one hand while coming up with antibiotics on the other and simutaneously juggling the various Auditore family dramas and being Leonardo's muse-oh, I only wish! Even now, I can't think of some of the things I did and said without wincing, and in one case, suffering agonizing guilt.

The truth is, when it comes to anything other than art and architecture, there is hardly anyone not more qualified to cope than me. I'm just a Preserver drone, a little worker bee. If I was one of the Facilitators, the movers and shakers, the kingmakers among us cyborgs, I would have dealt much better with the Templar threat. I made a real hash of it when I came face to face with Rodrigo, among my other blunders. Or if I were a Security tech- better still, a microbiologist, because then I would have known what to look for when it came to finding the right spores. It's useless to repeat _if only, if only_, though. I was there. I did what I thought right at the time, and sometimes I really fucked up. The world somehow failed to come to an end despite everything.

Go figure.

* * *

The moment Claudia Auditore heard her brother say "Her name is-," she wanted to shriek, _No, you can't! _, her imagination leaping directly from 'female guest' to 'future wife'.

It wasn't that she thought Ezio would never marry. She expected him to, In fact, it was his duty to marry and carry on the Auditore name, all the more so because Zio Mario had never had any children of his own. When she thought of that happy event, though, it was in the future, when Ezio was at least thirty, and it was connected with their triumphant return to Firenze. It would be arranged properly between the bride's family and since one couldn't expect Uncle Mario to do the proper thing, Lorenzo de Medici would act on Ezio's behalf when it came to dowries and contracts and so forth. The bride would be nobody she knew—as Florentine girls from their class usually married when in their teens, and their new husbands would be in their thirties or even forties, when Ezio was ready to be married Claudia herself would be at least in her late twenties—.

That, however, was not a comfortable thought. Most of her friends would be married by now, and probably mothers as well. She might even have been married , were it not for their family's disgrace and the unpleasant fact that her former betrothed, Duccio, had been a faithless weasel. It was no good pointing out, as Uncle Mario did, that most people married in their twenties and she had plenty of time in which to make a good match. At nearly nineteen, Claudia was seeing her chances slipping away from her. And how was she spending it? She was stuck behind a desk doing paperwork, keeping track of the finances for both the town and the condotta, and auditing all the expenses. Not to mention looking after Mother and running her uncle's household.

It wasn't fair. It really wasn't.

(With her skills, in five or six hundred years time, Claudia would have gotten her MBA by the time she was twenty-two and been CFO for a corporation by the time she was thirty-five, striking terror into her subordinates with a glance, having people running to get her coffee—and loved every minute of it. So indeed, her life wasn't fair, but only in comparison.)

With all her expectations, frustrations and desires, Claudia was truly shocked to learn that Ezio had brought home a girl, and even more shocked when she saw her. _Ezio's tastes have changed a lot_, was her first thought. Her brother had always admired tall, slender, aristocratic beauties, like Cristina Vespucci, preferably with blonde or red hair. This girl, Ginevra Schiavoni, was small, curvy, darkish, and pure peasant. Although right now she was pretty, in a sort of healthy, sun-browned way, anyone who looked at her could tell that in ten years she would be coarse and fat. Why this one, when he could have had his pick (or nearly) of high-born maidens from the best families in Florence? (Ones who were endowed with more than just a chest,) she thought, looking both at the item under Ginevra's arm and the bodice of her dress.

Claudia disliked her on sight. Not for any personal reason, but because her hope, her dream of getting back to the life she had known all evaporated. If this was to be her sister-in-law, then she was stuck in her uncle's poky little town until they all rotted. Still, she was a guest and Claudia was going to do the right thing. If her father was missing and dead, as Ezio hinted, that was unfair too, because then Claudia could not hate her. She could not hate somebody who was about to learn what Claudia had three and a half years ago-that her whole life could crumple in a moment. Summoning up her best manners, she offered this unwanted visitor some almond milk.

"Thank you, yes, but I would thank you more for the chance to wash my face and hands first," Ginevra replied.

"Of course," Claudia showed her to the alcove with the pitcher of water and the basin kept for just that, and while her intruder freshened up, told a maid to ready one of the guest rooms for her, since she was obviously going to spend the night, and to set places for two more at the dinner table. By then, the Schaivoni girl had returned, her hair combed and her dress brushed clean, making a remark about some feature of the room or other that Claudia had never even noticed.

That meant Claudia then had to show her around the villa, including the picture gallery upstairs, which was rather bare of pictures at the moment, but Ginevra obviously thought that what art they had was first-rate. She wasn't just gaping like a hay-seed, either, which forced Claudia to upgrade her estimate of the girl's origins. Ginevra Schiavoni might look like any grape-harvester or olive-grower's daughter, but her education was at least equal to Claudia's own (and possibly a little better). She was the daughter of some well-to-do merchant or professional, then, not just a farm girl in a fancy dress. Which only irked Claudia even further. If this interloper had a vulgar accent or if she gaped at the beautiful marble walls and fine carpets from the East, then Claudia could comfortably despise her. It was not fair.

Pasting on her pleasantest expression, Claudia cheerfully pointed out, "But you still haven't had that almond milk I offered you? What if we take it out in the garden-such as it is."

"Thank you, " Ginevra smiled back. At least she had left the wooden chest she was hauling around with her in the guest room. They went downstairs and outside.

Claudia waited until after the maid had poured out the milk, made from ground almonds boiled in water until they dissolved, flavored with rose water and sweetened with a little honey. It wouldn't sour like cow's milk, and it hadn't any alcohol, which was rare and welcome. Taking up her goblet, Claudia tasted it, and watched the other girl take a swallow. _Right. I've been good for as long as I can stand_. She opened her mouth, and was about to demand the truth from Ginevra Schiavone about who she was and why she was there, but before she could get a word out, her guest said, "I'm not your brother's betrothed, his wife, his intended, his mistress, amica intimi, lady-love, or anything else you might want to call it. I have no designs on him, and never will."

"What?" Claudia blurted out. Having her question anticipated threw her off.

"Well, you've been dying to ask since I entered the house, so I thought I'd get that out of the way. Also, there really were bandits, although they were more like would-be bandits, and it's also true that if it weren't for your brother, I would be friendless and alone right now. I wish very much that Ezio hadn't thrown us together without warning like that, especially since he never told me what I can and can't tell you."

"As far as I'm concerned, you'll never have to count me among your friends," Claudia snapped back, stung. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"To answer that, I have to ask you something. How much do you know about what your brother does?"

By chance, (or was it?) this horrible, hateful, rude stranger had hit on the one area where Claudia's nerves were truly frayed to the breaking point. She started to say that it was none of her business, but startled them both by bursting into tears.

"I don't know," she choked out. "He's not a soldier or condottiere like Uncle. Whatever it is, he does it alone. He goes away for months and when he comes back, his shirts-I wash them myself. I don't dare let the laundress have them, because of the blood-there's so much blood on them, and it isn't his. If it were he'd be dead ten times over. He won't tell me, and Uncle won't explain. It's like they're always patting me on the head, and I hate it. ...and he always has money, too much money. Every time he leaves I'm afraid it's the last time I'm going to see him. I think-I think he's killing people for money and I can't stand it!" she sobbed.

"Oh," Ginevra said. "Oh...dear. I didn't mean to...I'm sorry. I think you ought to be having this conversation with him. I do think they're trying to protect you and not condescend to you, for what it's worth. If they didn't respect your intelligence they wouldn't trust you with the money. In fact, Ezio said as much."

"He did?" Claudia sniffed. "Who-who are you, anyway?"

"I'm-this is an awkward one. I don't want to lie to you, but I really can't explain until your uncle and brother come clean with you. I can tell you the official story, though-with the understanding that you'll have to swear to it if anyone outside of Ezio, your uncle and Leonardo da Vinci ever asks."

Great relief, such as that which is gained by having a good cry about something that you really need to, can lend itself to sudden changes of mood. So the offer Ginevra made elicited a chuckle from Claudia. "I didn't think you would be divertimento," she said. "Va bene. What's the official story?"

"I am the daughter of Dottore Sigisimundo Schiavoni," Ginevra began, and went on to tell her about a life spent following her father as he obsessively wandered the Mediterranean in search of cures and remedies, never content with what he had already done, prone to quarrel with colleagues and in the habit of cutting all ties once he had fought. As his only child, although a girl, she had acted as both his apothecary and secretary. In her chest upstairs were all the formulas and an unfinished manuscript for a book about his discoveries. Recently, feeling his age, he had returned to Italy, where their traveling party was promptly attacked by bandits, and he was now missing, presumed killed.

"That's a real shame," Claudia said, fascinated despite herself. "How much of it is true?"

"There was, or is, a doctor who raised me. Doctor Zeus... And I learned a lot from him. That's about as much as I can say."

"I didn't want to like you, you know." Claudia told her. "I'm not sure I do, not yet. But I appreciate that you aren't patting me on the head. And you're really not interested in Ezio that way?"

"No. He's too young, too green for me."

Claudia was on the verge of saying that she was almost sorry that Ginevra wasn't going to be her sister-in-law when Ezio and Uncle Mario approached them. Was it her imagination, or was her uncle a little redder-faced than usual?

"Madonna Ginevra, may I present my uncle, Ser Mario Auditore?" Ezio asked. "Uncle, madonna Ginevra Schiavone."

"It is an honor meeting you, Ser," Ginevra said, giving the conventional words a greater sincerity than usual.

"The honor is mine, madonna. And... I am a plain spoken man who has spent his life as a soldier. I cannot help but speak plainly, so I will say this plainly. If...If you will have me, I will have you. Will you do me the honor of accepting my hand?" Uncle Mario said in a rush.

Ginevra gave Ezio a fulminating glare. "You cheater!" she exploded.

Claudia was doing some exploding of her own. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh! So Ezio is too young, too green for you! Oh, you-!" When Claudia Auditore got mad, she didn't slap. She punched. And now she drew back and let Ginevra have it right on the chin.

* * *

TBC...I love reviews, they're delicious.


	15. A Good Beginning?

A/N: Neither the movie nor the book mentioned immediately hereafter exist. I made them up. Celine Visconti is also the product of my imagination, but the movie stars mentioned are real with the exception of Elizabeth Short. She was real, and she really was murdered. However, she never made it into the movies.

* * *

Tragic Muse: 1943. Olivia De Havilland stars in this undistinguished period piece about the life and loves of Ginevra Schiavoni, who pines for her true love Ezio Auditore (Tyrone Power) while his best friend Leonardo da Vinci (Leslie Howard) pines for her in return. To top it all off, she's married to Ezio's cruel, cold uncle Mario, (Basil Rathbone). Agnes Moorehead's turn as madwoman Maria Auditore may be the best performance in the film, but the brief appearance of starlet Elizabeth Short as Claudia Auditore, Ezio's teenage sister, is haunting. Four years later, Short would become forever known as the Black Dahlia, victim of a cruel and grotesque murder that remains unsolved until this day. Three stars.

* * *

Despite what certain movies and romance novels would have one believe, surviving letters reveal that although fond of her nephew by marriage, Ginevra was never in love with Ezio Auditore, and Leonardo da Vinci never in love with her. The letters she and Mario Auditore exchanged are few. While they show a relationship based on respect and affection rather than passion, this is hardly surprising, given their age difference. The greater surprise may be how mature she was: At the time of their marriage, he was fifty-six and she was between sixteen and nineteen; her exact date of birth remains unknown. Yet her letters would have done credit to a woman twice her age... Excerpt from Renaissance Women: The Other Face of History by Celine Visconti, 1979.

* * *

Sure, I could have dodged Claudia's fist, easy. I could have dashed up to the roof of the villa and back in the time it took for her knuckles to reach my jaw, but I figured I had already done enough to her for one day without going out of my way to freak her out. I decided to let her have the satisfaction of socking me one, and rolled with it so she wouldn't actually break her phalanges on the ferroceramic underlying my face.

I did not roll quite enough, it seemed, because she shrieked in pain, grabbed her wrist, and started shaking her stinging hand.

"Claudia!" both her uncle and brother cried in near perfect unison, glaring at her.

She glared back, her nostrils flaring. "Yes, I hit her. So what? It isn't as if the two of you haven't done worse."

"You will beg madonna Schiavoni's pardon immediately!" Mario Auditore commanded.

"Beg her yourself!" she flung back, "since you don't seem to have any trouble begging her for other things! Don't any of you talk to me— you murderers, assassins—lechers! And liars! I—!" Perhaps she'd run out of insults because she turned and fled into the house.

"Madonna Ginevra, I'm sorry. Uncle, I'll talk to her," Ezio started to follow Claudia, but paused to tell me, "He thinks you're beautiful. Just so you know," before he hollered "Claudia!" as he disappeared inside as well.

Apologetic, Mario Auditore turned to me, "Madonna Schiavoni, I hope you can forgi—." The reason he stopped was because he caught my eye and the humor in the situation got the better of us both. I began giggling, he joined in with a chuckle, and we wound up having a good belly laugh about it. Which is a nice way to begin anything, isn't it?

"Perhaps we should pretend that little scene never happened and begin afresh, Ser," I suggested. "I am most honored to make your acquaintance, Ser Mario."

"Likewise," he replied. "Will you walk with me, madonna?" He offered me his arm, on the side with his good eye, naturally, and we stepped up on to the walk that ran atop the city wall.

"The view from up here is quite impressive," I admired the countryside, "and your home is a perfect example of the best principles of architecture made solid. I have rarely seen its equal, much less its better." I wasn't laying it on, either. Most Italian villas fell into one of two categories: the authentic but chaotic, which was to say, a working country house which was built without being formally planned, or the artistic but overly thought out, which was a residence for someone who lived in town more than they lived in the country. They wanted luxury and they wanted to impress, so they hired a professional architect who over did it. Villa Auditore combined the charm and simplicity of the first with the symmetry and fine lines of the second. Only the Villa Rocca and the Castello Uzzano compared with it.

"Thank you. It was my great-grandfather who drew up the plans and built it; With my long absences, it has long been empty but for a caretaker or two, but now that Ezio and Claudia are here, it has some life in it again."

"Houses are meant to be lived in," I said, "But tell me, the facade has seen some damage, hasn't it?" He told me about an attack back in 1320, and while we made small talk about the villa and the town's history, I scanned him. This man was what Ezio would mature into, in thirty or so years. He had the same trick of bending Crome's radiation to mask his presence. Well muscled and tall, like his nephew, too.

Yet although still in hale and hearty good health, with lungs and heart as clear as an entire carillon of bells, he was no immortal. His dark hair was touched with silver and receded back from his temples in a widow's peak, and he had gone somewhat soft around the middle.

Internally and externally, he had some significant scar tissue—the stab wound he'd taken in the meat of his upper right arm must pain him in the mornings and—oooh, the lumps of scar tissue in and around his testes explained why he didn't have children of his own. Paternity was extremely important in this culture, so I had wondered. At some point, Mario had suffered a crushing blow to the balls which effectively vasectomized him, leaving him potent but sterile, since the penile nerves and spongy tissue hadn't been damaged.

His liver was already processing a couple of liters of wine, but it was a fine healthy liver and there weren't many safe potables that _weren't_ alcoholic in that day and age, before refrigeration, pasteurization, and sanitation. Everybody drank, but the strength of beverages varied widely. He had no other signs of alcoholism, so I passed on. No cancers, teeth in decent shape—and Ezio wasn't lying. From the slight increase of his heartbeat and breathing when he looked at me, the subtle change in his perspiration, Mario found me more than a little attractive. He was no greenhorn teenager; a man of fifty isn't going to pop a boner instantly, but the attraction was there.

As for me—I studied his face in profile. Good bone structure. If Mario Auditore were younger, he might be a prettier person, but a less interesting one. He had worry lines and laugh lines and some frown lines too. The boring thing about immortal faces is how little they show character—that's another downside to being around the forever young, those emotionless, sterile, perfect masks of flesh and skin everyone wears.

I liked what I saw in him, what I knew of him. I won't say I was suddenly struck by Cupid's dart, because I wasn't. If Cupid had a younger sibling in charge of scattering 'Like Dust' on people, I would say I got a good sprinkling, that's all.

Then he caught me scrutinizing him and that made for an awkward moment where we simply looked at each other. He broke the silence. "Except for something about your eyes, you hardly look my niece's age," he observed, softly. "You are more womanly, too—by which I mean you move, you act like a woman and not a girl. Which Claudia still is."

"Yet less so by the day, I think," I replied. "For all of her behavior just now, she has guessed for herself what her brother does. Being kept in ignorance, as she is, she has no choice but to put the worst possible construction upon it. She is afraid for him, body and soul."

"I think, madonna, that you must have worked that out from her, even as you worked the truth out of Ezio," he countered.

"To those of our experience, ser," (I was not about to point out that my experience outstripped his by centuries) "those two are like kittens trying to hide under a tablecloth, certain they are hidden simply because their heads are covered, while their tails are sticking out for anyone to pull." I gave him a darting glance, "For example, Ezio told me of the legendary armor you were never able to unlock from its alcove, and the seal-keys he's finding in ancient Assassin tombs. One of which was concealed in the Duomo. The Duomo, Ser Mario, is still under construction on the inside. That means the tomb's contents and seal key may be ancient but they have only resided where they are for a short time. In living memory, in fact. An Assassin of the present day must be responsible—and what Assassin is closer than you?"

He laughed. "I didn't do it alone. His father, who was my brother Giovanni, and—some others had a share in it. The privilege of wearing that armor must be earned, and the tombs are constructed to test every skill in an Assassin's arsenal, progressively getting harder. Had I told him he had to do it—well, he's young, he would have baulked. Present it to him as a mountain I was never able to climb..."

"And he throws himself at it with a will," I finished the sentence.

"Exactly," He smiled; I liked the way his eyes crinkled. It was unfortunate for him that he had lost that eye, but it bothered me not at all. "Forgive my directness, but how old _are_ you, madonna?"

"I was born in 1432," I prevaricated. While not a lie direct, it did not take in the full truth of my nine hundred and five years. I too know what will make men baulk, and Mario Auditore would prefer to be more experienced than I, no doubt in all sorts of ways.

"That would make you only eight years younger than I," he exclaimed. "That's not possible!"

"We are made to heal quickly and perfectly," I explained. "Aging is just a slow form of injury. Shall I give you proof?" We had strolled along the wall to a place that was being repaired, and the workmen had left some stones lying around loose. I picked up a piece of good solid granite about eight inches by four inches in size with my right hand, put my other hand on the top of the wall, and smashed it with the rock.

"AAAgh!" I had braced myself, but the cry, like the water that spilled out of my eyes, was involuntary.

"Why did you do that?" He seized my hand to inspect the damage. It was bleeding in three or four places, swelling up, and turning white and blue, but as he watched, the cuts closed, the bruise developed through its sunset of colors, and then my hand was back to normal as if the blow had never happened. "That—it—Don't do it again, madonna. Don't hurt yourself for no cause, even if you do heal."

"I won't unless it's necessary," I promised. "But my question is, can you still agree to bind yourself to a creature like me, if only in name?" I knew the answer already, (and I knew he didn't want it to be only in name) from how his pulse jumped. But he surprised me.

"I made you the offer, and I do not take it back. There are still some things I should like to know, though. Why would you, a stranger to us, want to do us so much good? What do you expect in return?"

* * *

A/N: The game _says_ that Mario Auditore was born in 1434, but it also says he played an important role in the Battle of Anghiari as a young man. As that would have taken place when he was only six years old, and as Giovanni is supposed to have been born in 1436 and married Maria in 1452, when he would have been sixteen and she eighteen, I prefer to add ten years to the ages of each of those gentlemen. That way Mario would have been born in 1424 and taken place in the battle at age sixteen, while Giovanni was born in 1426 and married the eighteen year old Maria in 1452 when he was twenty-six. Much more in keeping with the times.


	16. Above Rubies

A/N: I play AC2 on a PC which for some reason isn't up to playing AC1, so I have a question for those of you who have. Could a malfunctioning, misused, or broken Piece of Eden cause unusual seismic activity, such as earthquakes, tsunamis or volcanic eruptions? On-going ones, not just freak occurrences like Tunguska.

* * *

"So this Greek dottore she ran away from, was he a Templar too?" Claudia asked.

"...she doesn't know," Ezio replied. Not knowing how to explain what a cyborg was to Claudia, much less how she got there, and guessing how Claudia would react to hearing that he and their uncle were the only two Assassins (as far as he knew) carrying on the war against the Templars all by themselves, he had made up a story about how Ginevra had run away from the cruel doctor who took in foundlings only to use them for medical experiments, after which the Assassins of Greece had found her and sent her along to Italy, both for her safety and because she could treat Lorenzo's gout. In doing so, he had inadvertently told her the truth about one thing-that there was a network of Assassins throughout Europe, much of Asia, and even parts of Africa. He would have been very surprised to learn how right he was.

"What are they doing now?" His sister tried to crowd him out again.

"They're still just talking-don't shove! If you weren't so loud, I might be able to hear what they're saying. Or at least lower your voice, so they don't hear us."

What might have been a very nasty argument between the siblings had been averted, or at least postponed, in favor of watching their uncle and Ginevra from one of the second-floor windows of the villa. Since the windows were few and far between, they were having to take turns, and since the glass was thick, greenish and bubbly, they had to open the casement to see out-hence the chance that they could be overheard.

"Just talking! There's no such thing as just talking! How are they acting toward each other? Are they standing apart? Is he touching her?" Claudia stood on tiptoe, craning her neck to see over his shoulder.

"They're walking along the wall, and she's taken his arm...she's on the side with his good eye, if that means anything." Ezio leaned forward as the oddly matched pair below began to move out of sight. Dashing ahead to the next window, he started wrestling with the reluctant hinges.

"I understand that Lorenzo has to stay alive so there can be peace among the city-states. I even understand that if madonna Ginevra's going to be accepted as Lorenzo's doctor, her honor has to be beyond reproach, so she has to be married. Better Uncle Mario than you!" Claudia scoffed, "but what I don't understand is, the Assassins in Greece, the ones who sent her to us, why didn't they _tell_ you the person who knew how to make gout medicine was a young woman?"

"Because the message could have been intercepted," Ezio explained. "If the Templars knew who to look for, they would have them killed before they got here-oh." Ginevra had just smashed her own hand with a rock.

"Oh, what? What's going on?" Claudia shoved Ezio so hard he nearly fell, and took his place at the window herself. "He's holding her hand! Disgusting! And at his time of life, too!"

"I think she must have barked her knuckles on the wall," Ezio recovered his place with a bit of a scuffle. "Can't you be quieter so I can hear?"

"As if you could hear at this distance!" Claudia punched him in the arm.

"Oww-oh. Uh-oh." Ezio frowned, seeing that rapt glow coming over Ginevra's face, that look of a martyr or of an angel imparting good news. "I hope she isn't going to bring up that business about her miracle cures again."

"Miracle cures?" Claudia tried to worm in under his arm.

"Yes. Some of the things she learned from Dr. Zeus-well, she went on about some very strange things, half alchemy and half-I don't know what, it seemed like witchcraft or superstition. Even Leonardo didn't understand all of it, so I don't know what our uncle will make of it..."

Whatever she had to say to Mario Auditore, the conclusion of it was that the pair shook hands at the end of it as though they were sealing a business deal, cordially and with a certain ceremony. He then left her to go back into the house.

"Claudia," he called, "I want you to send someone down to ask the priest to dinner and tell him to bring whatever he needs to perform a betrothal. Claudia? Where are you?"

"Here!" she called back, "but Uncle! Another for dinner, when there's already two more than planned? The cook is good, but she can't do miracles."

"Tell her to put an extra quart of water or wine in the soup and slice the meat thin." He started up the stairs as she started down, so they met in the middle. "The priest isn't that big an eater, from the look of him."

"So it's on, then?" Ezio cast another glance out the window at Ginevra, who reached out to an urn of herbs sitting on the villa side of the wall, delicately pinched off a small sprig of lavender, and raised it to her nose. She looked as young and blooming as the flowers, in contrast to the wall, which for roughness and age more closely resembled his uncle.

"Yes. Although if I were you, I would watch my back," Mario chuckled. "She seems to think you had me in mind from the start." Reaching out past his nephew, he closed and latched the window.

"I hope you told her I didn't," Ezio said, following his uncle as the elder Assassin headed toward his room.

"I told her you said you didn't," Mario cast a grin back at him.

"That's not the same thing. What do you think she's going to do to me?" the young Assassin asked.

"How would I know?" Opening his bedroom door, Mario Auditore went in, and his nephew followed him.

Spare and simple as the tent Mario used while on campaign, even to the point where it was an interior room, and therefore, like a tent, had no windows, the most unique feature, of the room besides the weapon rack and armor stand-(Ezio's collection was more numerous, but he was still upgrading to better pieces, while his uncle already had the best) was a tapestry that hung opposite the bed. The picture woven into it was of Paris awarding the apple of Discord to the victoriously and gloriously nude Aphrodite while a miffed looking Hera and sour Athena put their clothes back on. (Any similarity of contour between Aphrodite and Ginevra was lost on Ezio.) Ignoring the scene on the wall, Mario went to the clothes chest at the foot of the bed, opened it, and started rummaging around in it.

"So-did she start talking about moldy food and cowpox?" Ezio asked.

"Yes-where is it? I don't think it fell out when this thing tumbled in the river last time-ah." He straightened up, holding a strongbox in his hand, and took out a key ring.

"Didn't you find that kind of talk rather strange-when did you buy those?" Ezio gaped. Mario Auditore had opened the box and poured its contents in a heap on his bed. A small mound of jewels set in gold gleamed and glittered up at them. Some of them were as fine as any of Lorenzo's, Lorenzo's wife's, or Lorenzo's mistress's.

"Buy them? I never spent a quadrini on jewelry in my life. Didn't steal them, either. Sometimes when the condotta's payment for services rendered comes due, a noble employer may be a bit short of coin, so he-or she-makes up the difference with a trinket or two. Same thing with assassination contracts." Mario sorted through the heap while he spoke. "Then after a city's taken, there's always some spoils that come my way." Pulling out a strand of pearls, he frowned at it. "I thought I gave these to Imperia-no, that strand was twice as long as this, and it had a sapphire in the clasp. Think these'll do as a betrothal gift?"

"I suppose so-. Who's Imperia?" Ezio asked.

"Twenty-five years ago, she was the most expensive and skilled courtesan in Genoa. Now she's a grandmother. Don't stand there with your mouth open like that, Ezio, the flies'll get in. The necklace was payment for telling me when a certain client of hers was going to call. I had a contract on him."

"Oh," Feeling foolish, he closed his mouth.

"She bedded me for free." He smiled reminiscently. At Ezio's shocked look, he clapped his nephew on the shoulder. "No doubt you'll learn (if you haven't already) that a man with the air of an assassin, the swagger of a rogue, and the manner of a gentleman is acceptable to women at all levels of society-but jewelry doesn't hurt either. This will do for my ring," Mario held a braided circle of gold, silver, and iron up to the light, "but what about hers? I've given sacks of this stuff away over the years."

"Do you have to go to this much trouble and expense? It's only an arrangement, after all." Ezio said, watching his uncle try various rings on his pinky, looking for one sized for a woman's hand.

"Ezio, you're the one who walked her through the center of town right before the supper hour in full view of everyone. They all know your mother-that my sister-in-law's health does not permit her to do any chaperoning. If Ginevra is formally betrothed to someone in this house by bedtime, then people will wink at whatever goes on before the actual wedding, and if nothing goes on, that's our business. Formally means a priest, rings, and a suitable gift. Do you think this is a ruby or just a garnet?" He held up a ring set with a red cabochon.

"I don't know." Ezio confessed.

"Dark red will suit her, either way," Mario concluded, sweeping the rest of the treasure trove back into the box and stowing it away once more. "Will you take the necklace and the ring I'll wear down to her?"

"Of course. But, Uncle-about the moldy miracle cure-."

"You want to know if I believed her? Ezio, I've been a soldier for over forty years now. That's twice as long as you've been alive. Do you know what happens in a camp when discipline regarding latrines and waste water isn't enforced?" He gave his nephew no time to answer.

"Men get fevers and burn up like dry leaves. They crap themselves to death because their bowels gush everything out faster than they can take it in. I've seen the plague, lived through smallpox, survived dysentery. I already knew that if dirt gets in a wound, then infection will set in, like as not, and that turpentine or wine are better for cleaning out an injury than boiling oil, and that if you have nothing else, then piss on it. Do you know what makes the best poultice if a wound starts heating up with an infection anyway? Moldy bread, with maybe garlic and honey if you haven't eaten it already. I've held men down so the surgeon could go to work, and had them go limp and die before he was done.

"If it's contagious, if it's infectious, if it's gangrenous, I've seen it and done my best to treat it. I've lost comrades-in-arms, good men, friends, that way. Not honorably in battle, but to illness, disease, and shock. Everything she said was common sense, distilled down like wine into brandy. You need to spend some time out on the battlefield, Ezio. Everyone learns some doctoring out there-everyone alive, anyway."

* * *

A/N: Contemporary accounts of battlefield doctoring during the Renaissance include observations about how best to clean a wound, including the superiority of turpentine over boiling oil. Urine is fairly sterile and therefore not the worst thing they could use. They even did some reconstructive facial surgery, involving creating a new nose by grafting a man's arm to his face for several weeks. No lie.


	17. Diamonds and Pearls

A/N: So, is nobody going to help me with my question about Pieces of Eden and seismic activity? Okay. Fine. I'll have to make it up. But are these two things too scary to put into the same sentence, let alone the same fic: 'Leonardo da Vinci' and 'antigravity'?

* * *

Father Ambrogio, priest to the town of Monteriggiano, was not terribly surprised at the summons from the villa; the rumors had been flying thick and fast for the past hour. His housekeeper had already informed him that Ser Mario's heir had been seen heading for the villa in the company of a young woman who was a stranger to everyone, and that from the looks of things, it was an elopement.

Half the town was convinced that Ezio had got the unknown girl with child and brought her there for the purpose of getting his uncle's somewhat belated permission to marry her (and possibly also for protection from her outraged father and/or brothers). However, a quarter of the town thought it likely they were already married, because neither seemed penitent, furtive or guilty. On the whole, they were inclined to approve, because both Ser Mario and his heir, Ser Ezio, led dangerous lives and might at any moment get themselves killed. In the absence of any other lord, the town was likely to be consumed by the Florentine state, and the townspeople preferred to remain independent. If there was another generation of Auditore on the way, so much the better.

The remaining quarter were either too young to understand or had also noticed the lack of any loverlike or marital interaction on the parts of Ser Ezio or the girl, and were inclined to think something else must be in the wind. Exactly what that was came as a great shock.

"Betroth her to_ you_, Ser Mario?"

"Yes." Mario had received him in the villa's comfortable, homelike study-workshop, a room where Claudia did her bookkeeping and the architect drew up plans. He had also offered the priest a deceptively powerful pre-dinner cordial. "You see, the boy didn't think about how it would look or how it would work, bringing her here like that—but I don't know what else he could have done under the circumstances."

"And what circumstances are those, Ser Mario?" It was not in him to call Mario Auditore 'my son'. For one thing, Father Ambrogio was the younger of the two. For another, the lord of the town wasn't precisely a faithful churchgoer, being away half the time on campaign for many years.

"I first met her father, Sigismundo Schiavoni, over thirty years ago," Mario explained, "He's a doctor, and he was attached to the regiment of—I don't even remember. He had some unusual ideas for treatments, always looking for answers like why don't milkmaids get smallpox, things like that. Moved around a lot, partly because he was forever in search of new cures, partly because while he was a good man and a good doctor—treated plenty of folks for little or nothing—he had inflexible pride. Once he quarreled with someone, that was it. He'd stop talking to them and cut ties."

"That is a sin and a failing many share, but it is to be hoped his virtues outweigh them," the priest offered, feeling something was needed of him in this conversation.

"I believe they do. Anyhow, he only just returned to Italy after several years abroad, him and the girl and his household. He lost his wife about ten-twelve years ago, so he brought the girl up on his own. He was going to see if he couldn't make it up with his family—more cordial, padre? But he was going to Firenze first. I told my nipote to meet their traveling party, see if he wouldn't make a stop here. If only I'd sent him a day earlier, with half-a-dozen of my men."

"Something happened to them?" Father Ambrogio inquired.

"Bandits," Mario summed up. "He found the caravan, but not my old friend. The servants were all dead, Sigismundo missing, and the girl hiding in the trees. She'd gone off to answer the call of nature, I gather, and stayed hidden when the trouble started. So since she knew no one, Ezio brought her here. I'm hoping like hell her father turns up alive somehow, but until he does, what do I do with her?"

"There are always convents, Ser Mario."

"True, but that won't do us any good tonight," Auditore pointed out.

"I suppose not," The priest tipped up the glass and let the last sticky drops of cordial slide onto his tongue.

My thought was to have you betroth her to me. If Sigismundo is all right, simply lost, or hurt and recovering somewhere, then when he's found, the betrothal can be undone since it won't have been consummated. If he's not," Mario grimaced, "then I'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

There was very little difference between a betrothal ceremony and an actual wedding. At a wedding, the couple said they took one another as husband and wife, which was simple and straightforward—not to mention binding for life. In a betrothal, the couple said they _would_ take one another as husband and wife _in the future_. Blessed by the church, the only thing they had to do to change their state from engaged to married was to consummate their union, which could be in an hour or a decade, depending on the inclination or ages of the parties involved. If not consummated, the betrothal could legally be undone.

"But wouldn't it be more suitable to betroth her to your nephew?" asked Father Ambrogio.

"Ezio? He's only twenty, Padre. The fact of the matter is, given how betrothals work, I don't trust him. Maybe if she were built like a pizza with a face to match—but she's not. He'll start off thinking, we're betrothed, so a kiss or two won't hurt—and one thing leading to another, the betrothal will become a marriage."

"That is true." The priest was under few illusions about what betrothed couples got up to if left alone.

"Whereas if it's me, he'll have too much honor to go near her, and not being so young or hot-blooded anymore, I'll turn her back over to her father in the same state as when she left him. Capisce?" Mario looked quite serious about it.

"Yes—but if he is dead or he chooses to hold you to it, without any contracts regarding her dowry, you may find you cannot claim anything in future," Father Ambrogio blinked a little. Really, that cordial was quite pleasant. Was there any more, he wondered?

"If that's the case, I'll have a great deal more to worry me," Ser Mario predicted. "After supper, then, Father? I can call a couple of men in to act as witnesses."

"As you wish, my son."

* * *

Since the servant who would otherwise have done it was fetching the priest, Claudia set the table and I helped. We didn't say much—she was eyeing me cautiously, and why not? I had gone from unexpected sister-in-law to probable aunt by marriage within the space of half an hour. Who knew what might happen next? Certainly not I—and not Ezio either.

He poked his head around the door and said, warily, "My uncle sends these to you." His hand was cupped around whatever it was. All I could tell that part of it was metal and part organic, so I had to go over to him. He wouldn't open his hand. "Not until you swear peace with me. I swear I did not think of Uncle Mario until I got here and talked to him."

"Oh, that? I never really thought you did, stulto. However, the fact remains that you brought up the subject at noon and now by suppertime I am like to be betrothed. It's only human to feel rushed by it all. Suppose you were to set out for a journey of some distance tomorrow, anticipating six months of travel, only to find a shortcut that will take you there in half-an-hour? Would you not think yourself tricked?"

"I will not let you lead me astray, Madonna. Cry peace, or I take these back." He tried to scowl, but his heart wasn't in it.

"Peace," I capitulated, and he let a strand of pearls and a man's ring drop into my hands.

"Where'd they come from? Do you think they're real?" Claudia asked.

"Uncle has a box full of them up in his room," Ezio explained. "Part-payment for the condotta, he says. If a fake slipped by him, it wouldn't get by the thieves. They'd know rifiuti from real." The cultured pearl industry didn't exist yet, but there was such a thriving market for pearls that fakes and imitations made from fish scales and glass were everywhere. These were not only real and well matched in size, shape, and color, they were saltwater pearls, and therefore more valuable—a _lot_ more valuable—than freshwater. They were worth a fortune, literally.

I slipped the ring on my thumb to hold it, unclasped the necklace, and put it on. It was just long enough to touch my collarbones. "It's beautiful," Claudia said, not sounding either angry or jealous, "—but what a strange look you have on your face!"

"They are beautiful," I said, "It's very generous of your uncle—and tactful, too, to send them by messenger. Excuse me for a moment, please. " I slipped out of the dining room and then out of the villa into the back courtyard, where the wings of the house sheltered one like a pair of arms. It's not often that I want to cry for emotional reasons, as opposed to physical pain, and when I do it's terrible. All the sadnesses of nine hundred years come back to me all at once.

But why was I so stirred up now, without even a molecule of Theobromos to blame? Because a mortal man I had met less than an hour before had given me a present? He'd had it lying around, it was nothing special to him—and it wasn't as if no one had ever given me jewelry before.

I'd even had a lover give me a gorgeous pair of diamond earrings once, over a carat each and nearly flawless. For over eighty years I kept them, before Accounting decided to do a Personal Possession Audit on me and they were confiscated. Dr. Zeus doesn't let us drones keep anything valued above a certain modest amount, and the rest—well, consider how many things get lost in an ordinary move and then consider that I've moved several hundred times in my life. It couldn't be just jewelry alone. I wasn't that shallow.

Was it that I had returned to the time and roughly the place I had come from? Was this a millennial form of homesickness? Or was it that I was about to sit down to a real dinner with a real family, a family I'd chosen as my own—and which now, it seemed, had chosen me in return? If I was this bad now, what would I be like when one of them…died? How would I bear it?

They used to tell me that after a few centuries, emotions dulled, that I wouldn't feel so intensely, that it would all become manageable and rational. The heart was only a pump for blood, after all. I was a pitiful excuse for a cyborg—.

Now that I've come into contact with some Pieces of Eden, which might have certain powers over time itself, another possibility comes to mind—that memory might work forward as well as backward, and I was feeling then the echo of emotions that were to come.

* * *

A/N: The Catholic Church took a surprisingly long time to come up with a universal doctrine on marriage and betrothal, mainly because first of all, every region had its own customs and didn't want to change, and secondly because marriage involved sex, which was messy and sinful and they weren't sure they should be involved. What they did come up with, temporarily and at the time when this story takes place, was that for either a betrothal or a marriage, were the requirements that both parties had to consent to it, and that it had to be performed before witnesses. While they preferred that a betrothed couple went through a formal wedding before they went to bed together, they did not insist, and consummating the union was all it took.

The distinction between a betrothal and a marriage was unclear to many people, and got England's King Edward the Fourth into quite a lot of trouble. He betrothed himself to Lady Eleanor Butler, and, whether or not he consummated it, then married Elizabeth Woodville without dissolving the first betrothal. Thus making all his children with Elizabeth illegitimate and ineligible to inherit the throne. What happened then? Go read about Edward the Fifth and Richard the Third. It was messy.

Interestingly enough, up until 1940, in Scotland the marriage laws did not require any religious ceremony whatsoever, and were so broad that people could actually get married _by accident_. If an unmarried couple checked into a hotel together _as_ man and wife, they _were_ from then on man and wife, among other legal nightmares. That is why in Pride and Prejudice, Mrs. and Mr. Bennett think that Lydia and Wickham went to Gretna Green in Scotland—all the two would have to do to marry was take hands in front of witnesses and say they were married. Divorce was not as simple.


	18. Dinner And Afterward

My betrothal dinner would have been memorable simply because it was my betrothal dinner, but various factors at work that night combined to etch it into my memory in greater detail than I need to go into here.

First, the priest was bombed.

He had very recently ingested something like a close cousin to absinthe, only more so—there was not only alcohol and thujone, the active ingredient of _Artemisia absinthium_, but tetrahydrocannabinol, more commonly known as THC, the active ingredient of _Cannabis sativa_.

Hash oil, in other words. Oh, it had a few other herbs and spices in it, like coriander and mint, which would mask any odd flavors, plus honey to ensure it was palatable, but all in all, the effect must have been like getting hit in the head by a feather pillow with a brick in the center of it. My enhanced sense of smell told me that Mario had slight traces of the drink on his hands, but not on his breath—exactly what might happen if, for example, he had poured, but not partaken of, the Cocktail From Hell. I could only wonder why….

As a result, Father Ambrogio blinked owlishly all through the meal and was prone to giggle at nothing. If it would have had any effect on me, I would have asked Mario to pour _me_ a stiff dose, because of the skeleton at the feast. Namely, Maria Auditore, mother of Ezio and Claudia, who very nearly was a skeleton, because she was not eating properly and had not for quite some time. I had expected her to be depressed and withdrawn from what her son had said about her.

I was not expecting utter apathy. Neither was I expecting her to be a total wreck, physically. Underweight, no muscle tone to speak of, suffering from poor nutrition and hypertension, menopausal, and worst of all, she had osteoporosis to a degree more appropriate to a woman of seventy than one under fifty. I couldn't see any fragility fractures as yet, but the bone plates of her femurs, patellae, and tibias were degraded from kneeling in one position for long periods of time on a regular basis-.

_Praying_. That was what she was doing, all day, every day, and it was killing her slowly. Even as Claudia introduced us (Maria looked at me, but showed no sign of interest) she was praying under her breath. Her lips never stopped moving. She ate a bite here and there, but mostly pushed her food around her plate. It was distressing to see and dampening to the mood of the gathering. I had a new understanding of Claudia's ill temper-she dealt with this every day, I gathered. Maria very likely needed supervision to ensure she attended to all her basic needs, and that would put a strain on the resources of anyone, let alone a teenage girl. Ezio and Mario had their missions and contracts which took them away for months at a time, but not Claudia. It was a wonder that she was holding up at all.

However, in complete contrast, the food was marvelous. I made a mental note never to do anything to piss off the cook. The first course was finger food-chunks of sweet muskmelon wrapped with prosciutto sliced fine enough to read through, olives marinated in balsamic vinegar with thyme and oregano, three or four different kinds of cheese, and plenty of fresh bread with extra virgin olive oil like liquid gold to dip it in. Then came leek and chickpea soup, linguini with wild mushrooms, rabbit grilled with rosemary, slices of polenta, and a dish of roasted onion, eggplant, and zucchini. After all that, dessert was 'only' fresh plums, wonderfully ripe ones, not large but so juicy we had to be careful when we ate them. I hadn't eaten that well in centuries—not since the mid twenty-first century, at least. After that, between environmental destruction, the widespread rise of food allergies among the mortal population, and animal rights legislation, food became less a pleasure than a burden.

After dinner, Mario and I were formally betrothed. Half the condotta came into the villa's marble entry hall for it, a motley band of muscular men, many of them scarred and tattooed. They were quite surprised when they found out why they were there, too, but they got with the program fast once wine appeared. The priest was sober enough to perform his part—he blessed the rings, we exchanged them, promising that we would take one another as husband and wife, he took off his stole, a long strip of fabric worn loose around the neck, bound our hands together loosely—the gold thread of the brocade was scratchy—and told us to exchange the kiss of peace.

I'm not sure how _peaceful_ it was. Personally I found it a little unsettling, in a nice way. On the lips, no tongue involved, brief, warm and—gentle. Not the best first kiss of my life, but not the worst by any means. The men cheered, wine flowed freely, and I escaped upstairs before things could get ribald, like a modest maiden would. Then I was at a loss as to what to do. I was tired, but with the party going on downstairs, sleep was impossible. The villa had three and a half levels—the half was a single room at the top of the building, which I had been told was Ezio's. The ground level had the marble hall, the studio-workshop, Mario's office, display rooms for armor and weapons, the kitchen and the dining room. The second level had a picture gallery and the large bedroom, which was Maria's. The third floor was where Claudia, Mario, and I slept.

My room had walls painted the palest, mellowest ocher yellow and a big tester bed with a canopy. This being late summer, the curtains were thin gauze, intended to act as mosquito netting. I didn't need it; mosquitos, flies, fleas, etc, are not attracted to cyborgs, partly because they don't like the additives in our blood and partly because of the electromagnetic field we emit. Sitting down at the vanity table, which even had that luxury of luxuries, a mirror, I took off my pretty little Juliet cap and unbraided my hair. The pearls which were my betrothal gift went into my credenza for safe keeping. I didn't undress, not yet-while there were guests in the house, I might have to make an appearance, and I could hardly do so in my chemise.

Tomorrow I would start preparing Lorenzo's gout medication, and while I was at it, I should ask the credenza what I might do for Maria. St. John's Wort had antidepressant properties, and calcium pills should be easy enough to make from bone meal, but what she really needed was to eat better and get some exercise, both cardio and weight training. There was no magic pill which would make up for those. Tomorrow...there was so much that needed to be done.

I needed a workroom, first of all, because if I were going to bring antibiotics to the fifteenth century it would only be by growing a great deal of mold. Since mold tends to be accompanied by bad smells, I couldn't conduct my experiments in my bedroom. Possibly not in the main house. Maybe there was a handy outbuilding I could use... But developing a broad-spectrum antibiotic non-toxic to mortals which could be produced in quantity and stayed good for a long time was going to be problematic no matter what.

You see, oh nonexistant reader, that while many molds exude a substance which kills bacteria, in an effort to keep all the food supply to themselves, and that substance is an antibiotic, antibiotics are not created equal. Some are poisonous to humans-civilization as we know it might have been wiped out by a toxic mold that grew on onions in what was to become Ancient Greece, were it not for Dr. Zeus-others lose their efficacy too soon, some grow too slowly-.

But wait! What was that about civilization as we know it being wiped out were it not for Dr. Zeus? Isn't it drummed into us that recorded history can't be changed? Well-that's not exactly true, although I try to avoid thinking about it, because of the anxiety attacks. Penicillin is a case in point.

History says that in 1928 a researcher named Alexander Fleming prepared some Petrie dishes with a culture of _Staphylococcus_ bacteria and went on vacation. When he came back, he discovered mold growing on one dish, and that where the mold was growing, the bacteria was dead. The mold was _Penicillium notatum_. From it, he created penicillin. But how did that one fantastically beneficial mold, out of all the millions of species, strains and kinds, float in and land on that Petrie dish? And why did it flourish instead of die, as it might have easily done? Why did he get back in time for it to still be viable and useful?

Well, there was a messy mycologist studying varieties of Penicillium on an upper floor, and by chance, that rare spore drifted out of his lab, down the stairs, and on to the dish Fleming was preparing right as he was preparing it. And by another chance, the weather was just exactly right for both the bacteria and the penicillium, and...

Wrong. When Dr. Zeus realized that the dish wasn't going to miraculously yield penicillin, they did a rush job, sent someone back in time a few days to culture up an identical plate, with a thriving penicillium mold on it, and then sent an operative in to switch them at the last possible second. Instead of letting history happen the way it would naturally happen, they tweaked events to fit recorded history.

And it has happened over and over again. Not just the nice stuff, like life-saving medicines, but the bad stuff too. The plagues and the religious persecutions-Gosh, this really does sound like the Templars, doesn't it? The question is, why would they do that? Well, if recorded history doesn't happen the way it should happen, then they, our mortal masters at the other end of time, the Apex and Zenith of Human Evolution, the highest form of life that ever has or ever will exist-might never be born. And that would be such a tragedy, wouldn't it?

My hands are starting to shake and my internal systems are flashing warning notices on my retinas, so I'll stop ranting about that now. Back on the night I was betrothed, as I was thinking about molds and how to find the right one-the nearest place I knew for certain a suitable mold sample could be found was under tons of earth in the ruins of Pompeii, which was hardly what anyone would call easily accessible, the party seemed to be breaking up, so I undressed and got into bed.

Only to find I couldn't sleep, because I kept thinking about Maria and what could be done to help her. I lay there for at least a couple of hours, listening to her pray, while one by one the others got ready for bed. Claudia fell asleep first, then Ezio, and still Maria prayed. If I could come up with something that would calm and sooth her mental state while simultaneously stimulating her appetite...

That was when it the answer dawned on me. What famous drug with tremendous theraputic value calms and soothes the mind while stimulating appetite, among other things? THC. And was there any in the house? Yes, in that cordial Mario gave the priest. Where was it kept? I didn't know, and while I could track it down myself, it would be faster and simpler to ask. Mario was lying in bed awake, I could tell from his breathing and heartbeat.

I sprang out of bed, wrapped the coverlet around me, and went off to knock on his door.

* * *

A/N: In the game, for twenty freaking years _every time_ Ezio visits the villa, his mother is on her knees praying in the bedroom and his sister is sitting behind her account books in the study-workshop. They never have on different clothes. Okay, I understand why in the context of the game, but that's just not right. As far as I know, penicillin was discovered as history states, by a series of fortunate accidents.


	19. Hemp, Help, Hope and Hitler

Mario Auditore was half-expecting that knock on his door, and was rather disappointed when it came. Up until then, Ginevra had played her part flawlessly, to the point where he was almost convinced she was what she said she was. Her intelligence and her maturity made it very nearly credible, and however she had counterfeited that business with her hand—despite himself, he was moved. This, however, was overplay. Coming to his bed in the middle of the night, no doubt with some tale of having loved him immediately...

"One moment," he said, throwing back the covers. He knew what he would find, as he lit a taper and pulled on his furred velvet dressing gown. He would find Ginevra there with her chemise strings loose to reveal the valley of those magnificent tette, hair flowing down around her shoulders in rippling waves, her lips bitten to bring out their redness and licked to make them shine, and those huge dark eyes would be helpless and appealing. Innocently seductive, and as false as a first vow to give up drinking. The only question was, was this little susina ripe fruit or green, an experienced courtesan or a virgin?

...or something else entirely? Flowing hair, yes. Huge dark eyes, yes. Chemise—tied and covered up with a bedspread worn like a shawl. Lips—speaking. "I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, Ser Mario. I'm not here for the reason you might think. Have you ever tried giving Donna Maria that preparation you gave the priest?"

"What?"

"The drink with the wormwood and hemp in it," she explained, "which you gave Padre Ambrogio before supper. Have you ever given her a dose of it?"

"No—how did you know what I gave the prete?"

"I smelled it on his breath, and when you seated me at dinner, there were traces of it on your hands. His glassy eyes and beatific smile spoke of it as well. I doubt the wormwood will do her any good, but the hemp can help those who suffer from melancholy which follows upon the heels of great pain and loss. It also provokes appetite, which she lacks. She is ill, the which you knew already, but the depth and breadth of her illness may not be known to you. Once a woman is past her childbearing years, her bones begin to grow thin and brittle, and they do so all the faster if she is not active. You have seen old women with their backs bent like this?" She hunched over in imitation.

"Yes, but my sister-in-law is many years from being so afflicted."

"Not so many as you may think. Her shoulders are rounded and her back starting to curve. Yet the loss of bone density can be arrested, even reversed, but not if she won't eat as she should and take exercise. Is it not worth trying? Just for a brief time?"

"You...do not fight fair, madonna. That cordial is reserved for use only by the most seasoned and experienced of my profession, at our discretion. The young are too prone to experiment with it on themselves, to the detriment of their skills, their will to work and their ability to recall."

"I could have hunted out the bottle on my own, and given it to her without your knowledge or permission," she pointed out, "and any medication can be misused. You say hemp acts to the detriment of their skills, their motivation, and their memory, and it may be so—if the person has no need of it. In someone struggling under the burden of memory, tense to the point of snapping, and who will kneel and pray herself to death, that same blurring is of great benefit. If it helps her tonight, tomorrow I will see if I cannot refine it into something milder. Please, Ser Mario. Measure out the dose and give it to her with your own hands, if you do not trust me. I beg you."

It was not the pleading nor the reasoned argument which made him give in so much as the sense of helplessness that filled him when he looked at his brother's widow or when his nephew snuck into her room to put still more eagle feathers in the chest, and again when Claudia was reduced to weeping in her room.

Not long after:

It was not a miracle. Maria Auditore did not snap back into the vibrant,energetic woman she had been, but first the harsh set of her face softened and eased. Then the blank look in her eyes became more a vagueness, the difference between impenetrable fog and thick mist. She looked as if she was trying to remember, not as if she were reliving. Then she asked, plaintively, if there was anything to eat. Which was more interest than she had showed in the world in years.

They led her down to the kitchen, being as careful of the stairs as if she was glass, set food before her, and she set to work on it with something approaching a normal appetite. "This dram has been in the house for the last three years, going on four, and even had it been twenty more, never would I have thought of giving it to her," Mario said, turning the dark blue bottle over in his hand. "I gave it to the prete because there were so many versions of who you are and how and why you've come, in this family alone. I wanted him to be a little too happy to ask questions that could be inconvenient."

"I was wondering about that," Ginevra nodded. "It is no reflection on either you or me that I should think of it when you did not. _I_ didn't discover its medicinal properties."

"And I did not write the guidelines regarding its use...This afternoon, madonna, when I asked you why you would go out of your way for us, and you replied 'Revenge. Revenge against those who made me.'-I understand revenge, but I don't understand this. Because of Dr. Zeus, if I understand you, you will be young and beautiful forever. They gave you strength and speed and the knowledge of the ages. Even you say the work you were given to do was to your liking, and to me you do not seem to have been misused. I would think you would be grateful, not angry."

"I was, once. But that changed when-this is not something I've ever told anyone, but you-you've given me the protection of your name and trusted me, so-yes, I'll tell you.

She poured herself a cup of wine and sipped it. "I can fit into a wide number of communities, because of how I look. I am Italian, but I could just as easily be Spanish or Portugese, French, Welsh, Basque-or Jewish. I was sent into a Jewish community to live among them ten years before the Nazis-before a certain political movement in Germany would gain power and wipe out millions. That is not an exaggeration-they went on to kill millions. Among them were the people in that community. I knew the names of those who would die, I knew when and where and how. What Dr. Zeus wanted were certain treasures that would otherwise be destroyed, but they didn't know exactly where they were kept. So I went there, posing as a widowed seamstress, to gain their trust and access to their homes.

"I made dresses for the ladies, clothes for the children, window curtains, things like that- and I did it very well. People invited me in to take measurements and do fittings. Usually they offered me refreshment while I was there, and showed me anything new they had bought, or an heirloom they were proud of. I didn't steal any of those things-all I did was take note of where they were. Frau Jenny Goldberg, that was my name then. Reasonable rates, fast and well made goods, and often a little extra, like another shirt to go with a little boy's suit, in case he tore or stained the first. Or ribbon trim through the lace of a dress. Knowing how to be friendly, that helped. Soon I was part of their lives.

"And they were part of mine. Ten years is a long time to spend among people. I got attached to them. I held their babies, sewed their daughters' wedding dresses, went to synagogue with them. I knew whose husband beat her, who was pregnant before anyone else did, who was living beyond her means... I won't say I loved them all, because I didn't. Some of them I couldn't stand, some I only liked. But as the day grew nearer, the day all of them would be marched out to the edge of town, shot, and buried in a pit of quicklime-I couldn't bear it. Never mind that in a few decades they would be dead anyway. 'Ars longa, vita brevis'-that's Hippocrates. 'Art endures, life is short.' It could be the Preservers' motto. If they hadn't sent me there so far in advance, if I didn't know those people-but I did, and it was driving me mad." She took a large gulp of wine, and went on.

"So I did something that was strictly forbidden. I arranged a trip for the children and the young people, to the Volksprater the day before. What's a Volksprater? A park with amusements, like a Carnivale all year long. I was allowed to take my living expenses out of what I made as a seamstress, and I saved up to hire a bus. That's like a wagon, only bigger, made to carry a lot of people comfortably at once. While the others were in the Volksprater, I sabotaged the bus-that is, I tried to make it so the bus would be unusable for hours, overnight in fact. While they were stranded, I rushed off to where I'd stashed a motorcy-where I'd stabled a very fast, strong horse, and rode back home. That was so I could fulfil my mission.

"I did-I had everything crated and ready to go. I was waiting at the pickup point-and then...the Germans arrived before Dr. Zeus did. I was rounded up with the rest, marched out, lined up-I still had faith in Dr. Zeus, I thought-they'll come for me. Maybe I'll be shot, but they'll come, and I'll be rescued. Inside, I was both joyous and grieving-joy for those who I had got away from there, grief for those who were there with me.

"Then the bus arrived. I didn't know how, I didn't know who had got it back into operation, but it was a German officer who drove it up to the field where the lime pit was, and everyone of those I thought safe were marched out and lined up with the rest of us. It was," Ginevra paused. "I was among the first to be shot and go down into the pit, because I was screaming and fighting. They condition us very well, you see. I could have gotten free, but I didn't break cover. Not once. 'Don't reveal yourself', is the first commandment. I might have, but being shot in the head at point blank range will slow even one of us down-and then there were bodies, bodies all around me, weighing me down. My friends, my neighbors-and the quicklime.

"Time ceased to have any meaning. It was nice when the pain stopped, only I realized that was because my arms and legs were no longer attached to my body. When I became aware again, it was over eight years later. I'd spent five of them in a...tank full of liquid to aid healing once they put the pieces of me back together. Officially what happened to me was said to be a communications error, but the Head Administrator of Northern Europe, one of us, he came while I was still recovering, and the first thing he said... the first words out of his mouth were, 'I hope you've learned your lesson. It wasn't easy to get that bus repaired at that time of night.'" Now she put her forehead down in her hand, and sobbed, just twice. The cup drooped in her other hand, splashing a few drops of wine on the floor, where they looked like extra tears on the flagstones.

"You want revenge because they left you for dead," Mario said, stunned by story.

"No. I want revenge because they brought me back _from_ the dead, after they went out of their way to sent two dozen children more into that pit of quicklime. How I get it by helping you-I suppose I don't, in truth. I can get that by changing history. But-I have not let myself care about anyone since then. I suppose the Auditore just happened to be in the right place at the right time."


	20. Miao!

"I'm sorry," I said, setting my cup back on the table and dropping my gaze. Mario looked appalled, but also worried and not a little on his guard after my revelation. "That's rather more than you wanted to know. I don't know whether I want to—to connect to people or shove them away, sometimes."

"I did ask," he pointed out. He had a very nice voice, deep and rumbly. "Madonna, I don't know what to make of you, and that's the truth. It's like Ezio brought home this beautiful horse he found, only it comes on wheels and I have yet to figure out whether it wandered off from Troy. "

I smiled. "You can look me in the mouth if you want." I opened my mouth, baring my teeth, and as one does at the dentist, looked up at the ceiling. (Even ferroceramic teeth can get knocked out sometimes.) We were seated at a narrow worktable, right across from each other, so it was no problem for him to do what he did next, which was to take my chin between his thumb and forefinger, close my mouth a little, lean over, plant his lips on mine, and kiss me.

I often prefer chocolate to sex, but that depends on both the chocolate and the sex. It had been three hundred years since I had kissed anyone, I found him attractive, and he went for tongue like a swallow darting for a moth rather than a upside down duck rooting in the muck. The next thing I knew, I had my hands entwined in the fur of his lapels, his were in my hair, and we were in danger of knocking over the table.

"Wait!" I got my mouth free, flattened out my hands and straight-armed him away before we wound up rolling on the floor. "It—it's too soon." I was shaking, but it wasn't in fear. It was in self-restraint.

Unless we relaxed and slowed down, someone was in danger of getting hurt. I didn't know him well enough to be doing this yet, and I was too keyed up. It's part of what Dr. Zeus does to us. Sometimes, when you don't know or trust the person you're doing it with, sex can seem like an attack and then one's self-preservation/self-defense programming kicks in and the mortal ends up in the hospital.

Mario, thank God, (if there is one after all) was truly a gentleman and didn't try to take advantage. Which was good, because I did like him and having to demonstrate that I was stronger than he was would be humiliating for him and awkward for me. His good eye was sparkling, and he was breathing hard.

He opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment, Claudia entered the room and screeched, "What have you done to my mother!"

We both snapped our heads around to look at Maria, who was starting to nod off on the table, her head propped up on her hand. Between the drug, the food, and the fatigue of three years, she was heading for slumberland. Her other hand still had a half-eaten piece of fine cake-bread in it.

"Now that _is_ wonderful," Mario said, regarding her. "Keep your voice down, niece. The last thing you want to do is wreck the first peace she's found in years."

"What did you do to her?" she hissed, more quietly.

"I had a medicine on hand which, unbeknownst to me, can be used to treat people suffering as your mother is. Dottorina Ginevra brought the fact to my attention, and after discussing it with her, I made the decision to try it." Mario stated with authority. "As you can see, it is already helping. Your mother ate well and she'll probably sleep well, too."

"You didn't discuss it with me, and I'm the one who looks after Mother!" Claudia would have looked much angrier and more impressive if she hadn't curled her ringlets up in little twists of rag for the night.

"You are," Mario agreed, "but I am the head of the family, not you, and your judgment in this matter might not be impartial. Now, before you start shouting why don't we take your mother back upstairs so that you can put her to bed, eh, piccina? Come along, Maria." He helped his sleepy sister-in-law to her feet and led her out, Claudia following.

I had a look around the kitchen and remembered that I didn't want to antagonize the cook. Unhappy servants have ways of taking their displeasure out on their employers in the forms of burnt toast, cold food, and slow service. Locating her apron, I donned it and collected the dishes. There was a water tank built in beside the oven, to heat up washing water, and it still had some in it. Filling the dishpan, I found the soap and the scrub brush and went to work. Mario returned as I was scouring out the soup pot with a handful of sand.

"You don't have to do that! We have servants," he pointed out.

"I know. That's why. I don't want to get off on the wrong foot with your cook by leaving this for her to find in the morning."

He sat down and watched me work-or more specifically, I suspect he watched me jiggle as I scrubbed. I'd taken off the bedspread in order to work, and my chemise wasn't that thick.

"I've just realized what it is you put me in mind of," he said, his face brightening. He sat up straighter. "Do you know how a stray gatta will come to a strange place and decide it's home?"

"Yes," I worked away at a burned patch at the bottom of the pot. "So that's what I'm like? A homeless cat?"

"I think so. Not a feral, wild one, but one that's had a home and lost it, like if their owner died and the new tenant doesn't like cats and sent her off with a kick in the ribs." he explained. "This gattina has come a long weary way, I think, and has had more kicks, curses, and stones thrown at her than she has seen saucers of milk and warm firesides."

"Let's not forget the occasional burlap sack and subsequent river bottom...I've sometimes thought it wouldn't be such a bad thing to be a well-cared for, loved, little cat." The problem with heating food over a fire is that fires aren't nicely temperature regulated, and when I'd reheated the soup for Maria, it had scorched pretty badly. I added more sand and scoured away. "Except in this case, a tender-hearted young boy lured this cat here with good intentions but without permission or even asking if Villa Auditore needed a cat. His guardian, who from what I know of him, is likewise kindhearted and generous, has made the cat welcome, given her a pretty collar and the title of Cat of the House, but the question is-does he like cats?"

"Hmmm." He made a show of thinking about it. "Do I like cats? That would depend on the cat. If it were a spitting, hissing, cat which clawed and bit without cause—or if it destroyed tapestries, furniture and books wantonly, then no. Nor would I like one which toppled breakables off shelves and hid valuables away for itself. If it yowled in the night and tore around the house like a demon on fire, banishing all sleep, or if it neglected the mice in favor of sleeping around wherever it pleased—if, in short, it were a cat sent by the great big King Rat to wreak havoc, break, destroy, tear asunder and otherwise bring down the house around our ears, I would not like that cat."

"Are we speaking of cats in general or of this particular cat still? Any cat might claw or bite if frightened, or in play—but you did say without cause. As for destroying household goods, I think if given reasonable freedom, your possessions are safe, as are your valuables and breakables.

"Yowling and tearing around the house—you have to let a cat be a cat now and then! I don't mean to come knocking on your door every night to trouble you about the health of family members unless it's necessary, if that's what you mean. A cat which has the proper love and affection for her family not only catches mice, she makes presents of them to her people—with the best of intentions, of course. Sometimes she brings them back alive, for the purpose of teaching her humans how to hunt. As for where she might sleep—a cat always finds the best spot in the house, but you needn't worry that you'll find her at the neighbors'. And sent by the King Rat? Perish the thought. Cats are notoriously independent of mind.

"But having said what you don't like in a cat, will you not tell me what you _do_ like?" I turned my back on him for a moment so I could rinse the pot. _Finally_ it was clean enough to put away.

"Like in a cat? Ah—that she should be small. Warm, and playful as the mood should take her—all cats know well how to be winsome and charming, so I need not add those—neat, clean, and pretty, also. Apt to land on her feet, and cleverer than she lets on. Cats have natural skills in those. Cuddly, that I like in a cat, and pleased to be petted, with a...loud and ready purr." He was laughing and he had to look away.

"But if you plan to pet a cat," I said, and I was, at my age, blushing at the innuendo, "you mustn't do it the wrong way."

"There—that may be a problem...You see, how can I convince her I know how to pet her the right way, where to stroke and where to scratch, if she won't let me touch?" Oh, damn, but that man knew how to twinkle at a girl. Getting me to laugh was half the battle.

"You may have to be a bit patient. Cats are curious creatures, in more than one sense of the word— it may take coaxing."

"Coaxing? —_Here_, Gatta, gatta gattina. _Nice_ gatta—Micia micia micina..."

"Meow," I replied.

* * *

A/N: Vocabulary! Gatta—a female cat. Gattina—a small cat or kitten. Micia—kitty. Micina—kitten. Also a term of endearment. The male forms are Gatto, Gattino, Micio and Micino. Oddly enough, one of the Italian euphemisms for vomiting is 'fare i gattini/gattinare' which translates into 'to have kittens.' Why, I do not know, but there's gotta be a hairball joke in there somewhere...


	21. Watch This Space

A/N: Before you read this chapter, I just wanted to say this: I am not Ginevra. I don't look like her, I'm not built like her, she's not my wish-fulfillment fantasy self, and I never went through a wild experimental period where I had promiscuous sex. The only drug I've ever snorted is Flonase for my seasonal allergies, and that doesn't count. Nor, when I started, did I have any idea Ginevra was going to go for Mario, of all people. I do, however, try to let my characters speak for themselves.

* * *

So I kissed him again, there in the kitchen, only this time without the worktable between us, and the kiss itself was even better, more sure and certain. While having Mario's hands on my waist didn't set off any warning bells, it was a different story when they started to move. I—could not help it, which was ridiculous, because if I could circumvent my programming to tell him what I was and try to change history, you'd think that doing something I'd done thousands of times wouldn't be so rough.

"I'm sorry," I said, after I twisted free. "You may think that I am cold or else that I'm toying with you, but—."

Mario's frustrated expression relaxed into sympathetic understanding. "It's all right, Micina. I can tell the difference between cold and daunted. This little cat, I think, can't be sure whether the hand that reaches out to her intends to caress or strike. Trust has to be built, stone by stone, until the foundation is laid. I think perhaps it is time we bid each other good night."

We went up to our rooms, parting company with a fairly chaste kiss on the cheek, and I was left to my thoughts.

Perhaps it wasn't all programming which sent me into self-defense mode. Maybe some of it was me. Before I was posted to Austria in the 1930s to establish myself as Jenny Goldberg, I'd had a decent sex life. Serial monogamy was what it was—a new love every ten or twenty years or so, on average. Believe me, fifty people over five centuries is not a lot. But afterward—after I got out of the regeneration tank, that was my Lost Century. Someone like me, who looks eighteen with round tits and a pretty enough face (despite my short thick legs), can get what she wants from practically anyone she fancies, and I did.

Oh, the memories...A hotel room with a naked mortal who looked exactly like Jim Morrison-he might even have _been_ Jim Morrison, I don't recall our exchanging names-laughing as I chopped Dutch-process cocoa powder up with a razor blade and snorted it just as if it was cocaine, the buzz it gave me and the phenomenal love making afterward-. The couple I met one night in Tokyo, and the lovely long weekend at that inn. She was so-oh, to be able to capture the beauty of a human smile like Leonardo could, that I could do justice to her smile. What was her name? How could I forget? Nao, and he was Hiroshi.

I was not ashamed of what I did, not of any of it. I fucked people, but I didn't fuck them over. What I gave, I gave freely and honestly, exacted no promises or vows and made none. And yes, I knew I did it to blot out the pit of quicklime, all the dead bodies pressing on me from every side. What I wanted, what I got, were live bodies instead, alive and pulsating, supple warm skin, and the smell, the taste of fresh clean sweat...

Then one day, after about a hundred years, I just couldn't do it anymore. I don't know what changed, but all the pleasures of the flesh suddenly seemed pointless, empty, and worst of all, tedious. Distasteful, even. Three hundred years ago, that was. I had gone to bed with people I liked less than Mario and even less time after I'd met them. So what was wrong with me now?

* * *

A week and a half went by. Like Ser Mario, the citizens of Monteriggioni were not sure to what to make of his unexpected betrothed, and would dearly have loved a clue. In a town where a stray pig in the piazza was big news, this source of gossip was a godsend. The word on who she was and why she was there had gone through the town like applesauce through a goose the morning after her arrival, so everyone knew her father, who was an eminent doctor, was missing and the betrothal had taken place to safeguard her honor and wasn't for real.

If he were dead, however, then it was likely that Ser Mario was finally going to marry. While the lord of a town could normally do much better in terms of dowry and family connections, the fact that he was in his fifties and despite being of more than adequate virility, had no bastards running around, made him less desirable as a match. Noble families were understandably reluctant to tie a young daughter to a man who was likely to leave her a childless widow with nothing but her dower portion and nowhere to go but home to her parents. Better to have her become a nun and marry Christ instead. Christ wouldn't go anywhere, after all. As for Donna Ginevra, could she expect to do any better than him? If she were smart she would hang on to a sure thing. Mario Auditore was good-hearted, generous, and still in his prime.

The possibility that the young lady might after all wind up married to Ser Mario was better still as far conversation fodder, and speculation about Donna Ginevra was rife. By the time she emerged from the villa to visit the shops (everyone also knew she had only the clothes she stood up in) the curiosity about her was at a fever pitch. Where she went, how she looked, what she bought and said—all of it was noted, repeated, and dissected.

She visited the town doctor, (more of an apothecary, really), and bought not only ordinary necessities like licorice twigs to clean her teeth and rose water, but herbs like cinquefoil and St. John's Wort, then went to the tailor, where she ordered four gowns, two of the best summer-weight wool in clay red with spice brown, the other fawn and spinach green, and two of silk, one dark rose with peacock blue and the other blue-black with touches of silver embroidery. (The tailor tried in vain to interest her in the scarlet damask which would go so well with gold brocade, just the thing for a wedding dress, but she did buy several of the embroidered caps he had despaired of selling, as neither Donna Claudia nor Donna Maria favored them and no other woman in town could afford them.)

After adding chemises and other such personal items to the total, she bought herbs of several women in the market before returning to the great house. She was subdued and reserved, which by some was seen as standoffishness and by others as only natural, given her circumstances. There was hardly enough meat in that visit to make a broth, but that and other such doings in the days to come—She had, with Ser Mario's permission, opened up the old dairy house, unused for more than twenty years, and was now making medicines and soap according to her father's formulas, she and Ser Ezio seemed like brother and sister, but Ser Ezio's sister was not as friendly, Ser Mario and she were not sleeping together as far as anyone could tell—were enough to keep the rumor mills grinding nearly day and night.

Only the news that Donna Maria, thought by the town to be hopelessly mad, was suddenly improving could put talk of Donna GInevra into eclipse temporarily. She was eating, sleeping, even talking to her children. Soon she was to be seen walking outside in the garden with her daughter, and progressed rapidly to going for horseback rides around the countryside beyond the city walls on a very old and gentle mount, accompanied by her daughter or her son and a groom. Was it a true recovery, or a period of grace granted by God before relapse or death?

Then Dottore Sigismundo Schiavoni was found.

Sadly and sorrowfully for his daughter and his old friend Ser Mario, it was as a corpse that he entered the gates of the town. (Assassins never have trouble laying their hands on a dead body if one should be required; the body was that of a minor noble who mistook his son's bed for his wife's on a regular basis, and used the boy accordingly. The outraged wife and mother had paid extra for the body to never be found, or at least identified, and after Ezio had done some post-mortem work with a rock, it never would be.)

The tailor, his assistants and the tailor's wife stayed up all through one night working on a black dress for the funeral, and the townspeople, although quite sorry for the young lady, were glad at least to have her status clarified; of course she would now stay and marry Ser Mario properly, allowing them to criticize her performance as a wife for many years to come, with any luck.

Even that, though, was not certain, for it seemed that her father had promised Lorenzo de Medici a remedy for gout, and Donna Ginevra intended, out of filial duty, to deliver it in person. Ser Mario and Ser Ezio were going to accompany her to the city, but who knew if or when she would return?

Little did they know that a few more surprises were in store first.

"A convent?" Claudia exclaimed. "No! Mother, you can't!"

TBC...


	22. A Convent?

"A convent?" Claudia exclaimed. "No! Mother, you can't!"

Maria was on her knees again, not in prayer this time, but because she was weeding a flower bed. "I don't believe I need your permission, Claudia. In any case, I'm not taking the veil unless I find I have a true calling. This would be a spiritual retreat lasting one month. "

"But why? You've only just come back to us, in a way—why leave us again so soon?" After so much silence for so many years, Claudia wasn't sure she liked hearing what her mother had to say—which was probably a sin.

It wasn't that she didn't want her mother to get better, because she did. She'd prayed for it every night. But Claudia had never thought about what her mother's recovery would mean. Maria Auditore wasn't all better again, not by a long shot, but she was much more like the mother Claudia and Ezio had known. She had not been one to mince words, and she had an uncomfortably sharp way of guessing what her children had been up to. Most of all, though, she didn't need anyone to prod her into doing things for herself any more.

From feeling very much like a grown-up with major responsibilities, Claudia was reduced to being a teenage daughter again, and how was she to make her mother see that she wasn't a little girl anymore?

"I have my reasons," Maria said, shielding her eyes with her hand and squinting up at her daughter. "If we're going to continue this conversazione, per piascere, could you either sit down with me or at least not stand where I have to look into the sun when I look at you?"

"Oh, sorry," Claudia sat down on the steps by the flowers.

"That's better," Maria tugged at a clump of purslane. "Now, to answer your questions—first of all, I want to define for myself who I am when I am alone. So much of me was tied into being my husband's wife, my children's mother, that the loss of three of you wrecked me for three years. If I had more of a sense of self, I believe I would be better able to cope. Second, your brother will be away for at least half the time I'm at the convent anyway, and you don't really need me anymore."

"That's not true!" Claudia protested, wondering as she did why she was turning down that acknowledgement of her maturity. "I will always need you."

"But you won't always have me, and there's the truth of it. Third—there are so many memories in the villa, just in my bedroom alone. There's a reason why that bedroom is the only one on the second floor, and that's because it's the one used for births and deaths and bridal nights. Not that there have been many of the Auditore lucky enough to die in bed. Not of old age, anyway. Your brother Federico was born in that bed—do you think I don't remember? When I return, I can tactfully move to another room. I expect that by then, your uncle and Donna Ginevra will have a use for the larger bedroom."

"They didn't tell you you had to get out, did they?" Claudia blurted out.

"Of course not. I hope I'm not so dense that I can't tell which way the wind is blowing. Your brother may have suggested the match initially, but it's taken on a life of its own. I think Ginevra will make a very good wife for Mario—he's not the sort to settle down to a quiet life, and a wife too delicate to cope with the realities of a condottiere's life would never suit him."

"What about the realities of an Assassin's life?" Claudia asked, and then her hand flew to her mouth, because she didn't know if her mother knew what her father and brother-in-law (and now Ezio too!) did.

"I managed well enough," Maria surprised her. "Don't look so shocked—who do you think stitched your father back together and kept you children busy, if not me? Ginevra's quite grounded—I've never met such a wise head on such young shoulders."

" Hmph. That's the problem. I've seen uncle admiring those young shoulders, as well as other parts of her. At his age!" The comment was too irresistible not to make.

"Many men marry at his age, often after having buried a wife or two— or even three. And they wed girls as young as or younger than she, with less chance of compatibility or happiness." Maria pointed out. "Here they at least like each other. Don't think that isn't important. And as far as age is concerned—you're very young, Claudia. Love doesn't happen only to people who are young and beautiful and perfect. If it did, the world would be much less peopled. When you're my age, you'll look in the mirror one day and see a middle-aged woman, worn with cares and sorrow, and wonder what happened to the fresh-faced girl you are now. I know you can't imagine it now, but you will.

"People age like a tree adds rings, building up around your heart so slowly you don't even notice. The more years you own, the more you will wish people could see past them to the youthful heart that still beats in your breast."

"I suppose so," Claudia agreed, because you had to when your elders said things like that, even though you yourself were convinced it wasn't so. "—but about the convent. It may be the best for your soul, but what about getting exercise and eating well and taking your medicine? I think you would be better off here, where we know you and can take care of you."

"I've thought of that," Maria said as she attacked a tough-rooted weed with vigor, "Father Ambrogio suggested, when I asked him, a convent where the sisters grow their own food, which means the first two objections are taken care of, and they are also a nursing order and understand the need for medicine. Thanks to Donna Ginevra, I'll have an ample supply of the latter. I will leave with the others when they start out for Firenze, and they'll drop me at the convent along the way."

"So—it's all arranged already? You never said anything about it before! Have you told Ezio?" Claudia was outraged at this example of parental underhandedness.

"Yes, it's all arranged, I didn't say anything about it until I was certain, and I'll tell Ezio tonight. Nothing he says will change my mind, either. I don't need his permission. In fact, if I needed anyone's, it would be your uncle's, but even if he objected, he wouldn't stand in my way. If it will ease your mind, I make you this promise—that I will not disappear into the convent, never to be seen or heard from again. I will return after a month, even if I am attracted to the life, and test my vocation by staying away for a while. If I find that distance weakens it, I will not go back. Does that satisfy you?"

Claudia scuffed her toe in the gravel. "Did Donna Ginevra suggest the convent?"

"No—and if I were you, I would make more of an effort to get along with her. She will be the lady of the house, not you or I. Especially since she has gone out of her way to help me out of my darkness. If there is nothing else, I suggest you speak to your uncle. I think he's upstairs."

Claudia found him sitting on his bed, which was piled with clothing. Around Monteriggione and when on campaign, Mario dressed for comfort and ease of movement, in battered old boots with plenty of room for his corns, a tattered cape with the Auditore arms painted on the oilcloth, and particolored doublet and breeches. He was considered fastidious by some because he put on a clean shirt every day, (when there was one to be had, not always possible when at war), and a fresh ruff. After all, he might be called on to leap into the practice ring to demonstrate a move or any number of other strenuous, dirty jobs at any time.

However, as leader of the condotta, he had to deal with princes both secular and sacred from time to time, and dressed to impress accordingly. For this trip to Florence, when he would be paying calls on the Medici, he got out his sable cloak, velvet tunics, and so on.

Including, unfortunately, the boots. Rarely worn and still stiff, they offered no accommodation for his corns. As a result, he was deeply involved in the unbeautiful but necessary task of cutting them, one hairy ankle up on the opposite knee, shaving them away carefully with a freshly sharpened corn knife. The foot he wasn't working on was soaking in a basin of water to soften up the calluses before it was their turn.

"Whatever you do, niece, don't shout or bang anything. I don't want to cut off a toe. What Is it you want?" He turned his head so he could see the corn better; one of many inconveniences to having only one working eye. " I can tell from your face and your voice that something doesn't please you."

"It's about Mother and the convent. I don't think it's for the best, and you should forbid her from going—at least, until she's more herself. You're head of the family, and a man, so she'd have to obey you." Claudia stuck out her chin.

"That's what you think, is it? Now, if my female relatives_ have_ to obey me because I'm a man, then you must also believe that women are, no matter their age, nothing more than overgrown children, and can't be trusted to make any decisions for themselves. Then I couldn't trust you to keep the books or the household, and I shouldn't let you keep a percentage of the profits in return. It would be my duty to chastise you when you were unruly or disobedient, and I could do so with my fists or even beat you with a stick, as long as it wasn't too thick.

"Now I prefer to think that women are more or less equal to men, allowing for age, experience, education, and so on. That way, I might advise or guide you and your mother, but allow you to make your own decisions. Including whether or not to enter a convent. There have been enough formidable women among the Assassins to back up my views, and my views have the advantage of being easier for me. Your mother is a grown woman. She has borne several children and raised them to adulthood—or near it. Her reasoning is sound, and she has the right to go into a convent or not, to take or refuse medicine as she pleases."

"Oh," Claudia thought about the implications, and even as she spoke, something dawned on her. "But then I'd be here all on my own—Since you're going to Firenze, can I come along too? I haven't been anywhere in years, Uncle! I want to see the city again, and all my friends, and go to the shops and—."

Mario's eyebrows shot up in horror. "No!"

"Why not? If I'm more or less equal to Ezio, then I should be free to come and go as I please, too. I could even go on my own! The waystation's right down at the gate, and I have the money."

"You could, if you want people to assume you are the lowest sort of puttana, and treat you accordingly-which means the men would throw you a few coins after they rape you. This is one of those occasions where age and experience must be allowed for. You cannot go beyond the city walls or my estates without a chaperone. Both your safety and your reputation would be at risk." All of these things Claudia knew very well, but she was chafing at-well, at everything.

"But Donna Ginevra's going with you unchaperoned. Why is that all right for her but not for me?"

"She and I are as good as married, and if anything happens between us, then we are married. Also, _she_ is not a flighty child."

"Which means I am!" Claudia flared up.

"If you are not, then you are certainly acting like one." Mario told her.

"Wait-then she could be my chaperone, so I could go along. Please, Uncle!"

"The answer is still no. I wrote in advance to bespeak three rooms in a decent inn, and I was lucky to get those. Before you ask, I am not going to open up the Auditore palazzo, not for a stay of only two weeks, not with all the hiring of servants and furnishing it and all. It wouldn't be worth it. The only way you could come along is if you were to share with Gine-. Ah. That's it. You can come along _if_ you share her room, and-."

"Thank you, Uncle Mario!"

"Don't thank me yet-and _if _she is willing. You'll have to ask her."

Claudia glowered. "You might as well just say no, never, and not at all. You know we don't like each other."

"I know _you_ don't like her. She's mature enough not to get drawn in to your animosity. So I say again: Ask her. If she says no, then let it be a lesson to you in the value of getting along." Then Mario noticed he had nicked his toe and was dripping blood into the footbath. "Damn. Can you get me that spiderweb from over in the corner to staunch this?"

"Get it yourself!" Claudia snapped. "Let that be a lesson to you in the value of getting along." She took a mean little pleasure in banging the door behind her.

Nevertheless, she sought out Ginevra, who was in the old dairy, packing chunks of something white like butter or cream into a wooden box. "What's that?" Claudia asked, interested despite herself.

"Soap," Ginevra replied.

"It doesn't look like any soap I've ever seen," Claudia reached out and picked up a piece. It had the Monteriggioni arms imprinted in it, and it smelled of lavender. "Soap's usually soft and always eats the skin off your hands."

"Not this kind. I wanted to have some for here and some of it I'm taking as a present for Lorenzo's wife, Donna Clarice. This and rosewater-glycerin lotion."

"Oh," Claudia wasn't that interested. "I want to go along to Firenze, but Uncle says I can't."

"I'm not getting involved!" Ginevra held up both hands, palms out, to ward off the responsibility.

"You are whether you like it or not. He says the only way I can go is if I share your room and you say it's all right with you."

"That's-um. I'll have to think about it." Ginevra winced.

"I know you're going to say no, so you can just go ahead and say it."

"I'm still thinking!...If you don't go, I know we'll never hear the end of it, so my answer is yes. If you get to be unbearable-I'll just go sleep with your uncle."

Claudia could not restrain a cry of disgust. "Ugh!"

* * *

A/N: If you're looking for a fic that's quite different, try Striks' Subject 1, the story of the first person ever to use the Animus.


	23. One Night

From The Assassin Initiates Lecture Series, #5:

'…One explanation as to why the Assassins and the arts have been so closely associated for so long is that we Assassins protect human freedoms as best we can. Among those freedoms is the freedom of self-expression. One of the first signs of oppression, whether it be by the Templars or some other group, is the imposition and increase of censorship. When people cannot write, paint, act out, speak, or otherwise express what they think, feel and believe, it is a sign that our intervention may soon be needed.

Given how those in the arts often have access to many venues of life, low and high, as others do not, it makes sense that not a few have been valuable allies to us, and more. Many writers, artists and musicians have led double lives as Assassins: Dante Alighieri, Ambrose Bierce, Christopher Marlow, Aphra Behn, Niccolo Machiavelli, Marianne Mozart, Thomas Paine, and Artemisia Gentileschi.

Those familiar with the paintings of Artemisia Gentileschi know that one subject she returned to often was that of Judith beheading Holofernes—Incidentally, Judith herself ranked high among the Assassins of her time and place, as did Jael, who pounded a nail into the head of General Sisera. Unusual both for the unflinching realism with which Gentileschi depicted the scene and for the emotion she brought to it, her personal history explains both.

The eldest and most talented child of Tuscan painter Orazio Gentileschi, Artemisia was born in 1593. She showed so much more promise than any of her brothers that Orazio had her tutored in art privately, as the academies at the time would not accept women. Unfortunately he did not show such good judgment in his choice of teachers, for her tutor, Agostino Tassi, not only had a long criminal record, he was a rapist who had tried to have his wife murdered. After raping Artemisia, then an eighteen year old virgin, he promised to marry her—which by the law and custom of the time both negated the crime and preserved her honor.

Believing herself bound and betrothed to him by his promise, Artemisia had no choice but to have sex with him after that. It wasn't until he reneged on that promise that her father took him to court. Yes, her father did it. As a woman, she had no legal standing. First questioned and then tortured with thumbscrews to determine if she would stick to her story, Artemisia testified in detail as to how she fought Tassi to the point where she tore his foreskin with her fingernails and stabbed him with a penknife before he overpowered her.

She was untrained at the time, remember, not yet an Assassin. In return, Tassi brought in witnesses to testify to the fact that she was a loose woman, for if Artemisia was not a virgin at the time of the rape, then there was no crime. Such were the laws of the day. Needless to say, very few rapes were ever reported, let alone prosecuted.

Eventually Artemisia won, if you can call it that. Agostino Tassi served less than a year for his crime and even went back to work for her father, while Artemisia moved to Florence, where she was recruited by one of us. Her first target, quite naturally, was Tassi, but he was far from her last….'

* * *

"There once lived a poor tailor who had one child, a boy named Aladdin, who grieved his father so terribly with his careless, idle ways that the unfortunate man died..." Ginevra read.

It had taken no time at all for them to fall into a routine, however temporary. After dinner, the family retired to the workshop-study, where two or more of them might play cards—there was a chess set, but Mario was currently engaged in a game via mail (with La Volpe, the head of the Florentine Thieves' Guild and an Assassin his equal in status), while others read silently or embroidered. Other nights, one of them would read aloud, poetry or stories from a book often from another land, relicts from the Assassin ancestor Altair.

Ginevra could read Arabic, it turned out, fluently enough to translate as she read, and her telling of 'The Thousand Nights and One Night' often reduced them all to tears of laughter—although she didn't translate _all_ of them, because some were extremely lewd. Mario, whose own command of written Arabic had been acquired by intense study of the same book when young, could tell where she was by how she blushed before she leafed through the pages. (She had not shared with them that had been programmed to be fully literate and fluent in every human language, living, dead, invented, and yet to exist.)

Pages...He had locked up the Codex pages and the more sensitive of the books before dinner the first night, and the underground Sanctuary where the Armor of Altair was kept. She already knew of them, true, but if she were an agent of the Templars, it would not do to let her have access to such things. Did he like her? Yes, and more so every day. Did he trust her? Yes—and no.

"...And so the man who claimed to be Aladdin's uncle said, 'Pass me the lamp!' 'First pull me up, and I will give it to you,' the lad replied..." Ginevra read. Ezio leaned forward in his chair, his eyes gleaming, and Maria paused in her stitching to listen. Claudia was pretending not to pay attention, but Mario had noticed that she had not turned a page in her own book for a quarter of an hour. He smiled.

It was nothing for him to divide the person he was as the lord of Monteriggioni, the uncle, the commander of men, responsible, caring, and warm, from the highly trained, cold-blooded senior Assassin. He had done so all his life. Most Assassins had two professions, a life they lived in the eyes of the world and even their families, and the other, hidden life of the killer. The heads of the Thieves' Guilds in Florence and Venice, and Urbino, certain highly placed courtesans in a number of cities, a particular courtier in the court of Naples, the Captain-General of Venice—all were secretly Assassins. Ezio was an exception in that he was _only_ an Assassin. What, if any, other career he might pursue was as yet unknown.

Mario Auditore the man liked and trusted his betrothed. The Senior Assassin...liked her well enough, but he did not trust her. He had reached certain conclusions about her—that if she _was _a counterfeit, never had there been one so close to the genuine article. If she were a Templar agent, then she definitely didn't know it, not on any level. There was a parable he recalled from his own training, about how certain tribes in Africa trapped monkeys. They made a box with a hole in it large enough for a monkey's open hand to reach inside, but no larger. Then they put a fruit in the box, nailed it shut, and fastened it down to something. A monkey would come along, put its hand in the box, grip the fruit in its fist, and try to pull it out. The fruit and the fist would not fit through the hole, but the monkey, being only a dumb beast, would not let go of its tasty prize, not even to free itself.

Ginevra might be such a trap, and the bait inside was what she had to offer. _Everything_ she had to offer, and the sexual overtones of the metaphor was not lost on either the man or the Assassin. The problem wasn't touching the fruit. You could touch the fruit all you liked without any penalty. The trouble lay in having the wits to let go before the trappers returned.

"...'Have you not heard of Prince Aladdin's palace, the greatest wonder of the world? I will direct you to it if you are of a mind to see it.' The evil magician thanked him who spoke, and having seen the palace knew that it had been created by the Genie of the Lamp, he became half mad with rage, more determined than ever to get hold of the lamp, and plunge Aladdin back into the direst poverty..."

From the things she had told him about herself he had already worked out three ways to kill (or at least seriously incapacitate) the unkillable. If she was unkillable, that is, which he had yet to see proved and wasn't planning to—not yet.

Hopefully not ever. The truth was, he wanted to believe in her, to believe that a huge advantage had finally dropped into the Assassins' laps, and yes, that he himself had been fortunate enough to find what his brother had found thirty years before when he first met the eyes of a dark-haired girl named Maria de Mozzi.

But now she was closing the book, against Ezio's calls for "More, more!" , laughing and saying that what was a good enough stopping place for Scheherazade was more than good enough for her, and the others were saying their good nights before heading up the stairs, and they were alone. That too, had become routine—once the youngsters and Maria had gone to bed, Mario and Ginevra would play again at 'coaxing the cat'. Thus far, the cat had come closer every night, but had not, as yet, consented to be a lap cat. So to speak. Mario had come to certain conclusions regarding _that_ as well.

There was no lack of attraction between them, and she was hardly frigid, but when matters progressed too far, she turned to ice. Having been a soldier since he was in his midteens, he had seen more of the ugly side of human nature than he cared to dwell on, the orgiastic pillaging and raping that went on after a city fell when commanders and men alike were without honor. While she denied that she had ever been violated, he knew that there were forms of abuse which left no physical signs and left a girl technically still a virgin, and he had concluded that something of that sort had happened to her a long time before. That she refused to speak of it only served to confirm it in his mind.

Tonight she was wearing midnight blue, which made her skin look golden, and she smiled as she crossed the room after putting the book away. "Did Claudia tell you what I said I would do if I couldn't stand sharing a room with her?" she asked, impishly.

"No," he said. "Should I be concerned? I hope whatever you have planned doesn't involve violence. It doesn't make for happy innkeepers."

"Violent? I suppose that depends. I said if she proved to be unbearable—I would go sleep with you. Then I thought: perhaps I ought to try that out first, so I know which is the better option-." And she sat down in his lap.

"Ah-ahem." He cleared his throat, but he also put his arms around her, undoing the bow that tied the back of her dress shut. "Are you certain, Micina? I _can_ wait."

"Yes," she replied. "I'm sure."

There were ways, he knew, of faking virginity and feigning pleasure, and perhaps he was old and a fool, and everyone knew there was no fool like an old fool, but she did bleed and wince, and she did cry out, and it did not seem counterfeit. But that was always the question with her. Was she or wasn't she? But the joy with which she laughed convinced the man if not the assassin, and that night it was the man who lay in her arms.

In the morning she woke first, and whispered in his ear as he stirred. "Do you remember who I am?"

"You won't trap me that easily, Micina" he answered. "You are my Ginevra. My wife, and my love."

Was it the truth? Yes—and no.

* * *

A/N:Artemisia Gentileschi was a real person, one of the few and rare professional women artists of the Renaissance, and the capsule version of her history here is only a tiny part of her story. As far as I know she was not an assassin and she did not kill her rapist, except in vicarious form on canvas. There's been a movie made about her but I refuse to see it because it turns her rape into a consensual passion. Wrong, people! The laws regarding rape were much as described here—the rape of a young virgin was a crime, but the rape of an experienced woman usually was not.


	24. Lorenzo

Lorenzo de Medici was quite pleased when his steward discreetly informed him that Ezio Auditore had arrived and wanted to see him. He did not know why the young Assassin was paying a visit, nor did he particularly care. Many of the people surrounding him would not, he knew with painful certainty, lift a sword to save his life when he was alone, in mortal danger and outnumbered ten to one. Therefore a visit from the one man who would (and in fact had, when the Pazzis and their supporters attacked Lorenzo and killed his brother Giuliano) was a distinct lift for his spirits, which needed it.

He sat with his secretary in his courtyard garden, where a sprightly fountain sent up fresh water to delight the eye, the ear, the nose, even the skin and the tongue if one chose to touch and taste it, and he was not able to enjoy it. The summer sun warmed the ripe apricots on the potted trees, and it did not make him happy. His secretary read off the profits made by various branches of the Medici banks, and the profits were substantial, but still Lorenzo found no pleasure. Il Magnifico was suffering torments often compared to being eaten alive by rats, starting with the toes. In short, he was having an acute attack of gout, one so terrible that even the slightest pressure on the inflamed joints would have made him bite through his own lip to keep from screaming aloud.

While he had temporarily forgotten about Dottore Schiavoni, he was about to be reminded. Dismissing his secretary, and straightening up a little in his chair, he let a genuine smile of pleasure brighten his face as Ezio stalked into the courtyard. "Welcome, my friend," Lorenzo greeted him. "Forgive me for not rising to greet you, but—," he gestured to the draped table under which his swollen, fire-red feet were hidden.

"Ah," he said, seeing that several other people had followed Ezio into his sanctuary, "is this not your uncle? It has been many years since we last met, Ser Mario. It is a pleasure to see you under better circumstances." Mario Auditore had still worn bandages over the raw wound which cost him the sight in his eye and was in considerable pain when the much-younger Lorenzo acted as mediator to work out the terms of a peace treaty between Siena and Urbino.

"I could wish they were better for you, but perhaps there is a remedy," the elder Auditore said, amiably but mysteriously. He looked as if he were doing well, in several senses of the word, richly dressed in sable and mulberry colored velvet, with a heavy, intricately wrought chain of gold around his neck, and he exuded healthy vitality which Lorenzo envied.

"Indeed?" Lorenzo asked. "But who are these ladies? I do not believe I have the honor of their acquaintance."

"This is my sister, Claudia," Ezio gestured to the taller, who curtsied. Pretty and girlish in coral and sage, she wore silver filigree at her neck and ears, very maidenly and appropriate.

"Claudia Auditore? I believe I saw you once at your family's house in town, when it was first built. You would have been ten then? Eleven? I am glad to see the promise of beauty I saw then has been fulfilled." he told her.

"Your Excellency is too kind," she murmured, looking slightly overwhelmed. "I thank you for remembering me."

"Who could not? And this lady?" Lorenzo looked at the last member of the party. About the same age as Claudia Auditore, she gave the impression of being more mature. Although perhaps that was due to what she wore, which was the stark black of mourning, complete to an ash-colored veil framing her attractive but unremarkable face. The only contrast to her garments of sorrow were the pearls at her throat and the ruby on her ring finger. Lorenzo always noted details such as clothing and jewelry; fifteenth-century Firenze was nothing if not a status-conscious society.

"My uncle's betrothed wife, Donna Ginevra Schiavoni," Ezio stated.

"Ah? My felicitation—Wait. Schiavoni— Madonna, are you perchance kin to the renowned physician?" Lorenzo guessed.

"My father, Ser—that is, my late father. It is for him that I…wear mourning." She drew a long shuddering breath and closed her eyes, convincingly on the verge of tears.

"Perhaps I should explain," Mario Auditore began, and stopped. "No. I am not a man of words so much as of deeds, and if I relate it again with her here, she won't be fit to speak for an hour. You know, Ser, who and what I am, what my brother was, what my nephew is." His voice was pitched low naturally, and he kept the volume of it soft, not a whisper but a pitch more effective at remaining unheard outside of the courtyard.

"Sigismundo Schiavoni is not here to offer you the remedy for your ills, but this lady is capable of compounding it. She has brought it with her today. Micina, you have the box?"

"Yes." With a swirl of raven skirts, she stepped forward to offer him a comfit box of repoussé silver, about the size of a tangerine. He opened it; it was nearly full of small circular tablets, flat and pale yellow in color. "It is a treatment specific for gout and inflammatory arthritis—a treatment, not a cure. You will have to take it for the rest of your life, but, if it please God, it will be a longer one. If taken as directed." she added.

"I've never seen anything like these," he said, as well he might, since machine-milled tablets of that sort would not be developed for several hundred more years. "What are they made from, and how do they work?" He sniffed the container dubiously; they smelled of nothing.

"The active ingredients are colchicine, coffea, and a vital extract from citrus fruits, but that is not so important as how they are compounded, which among the living only I know. How they work—your ailment, Ser, is a hereditary imbalance of the bodily humors—you retain an excess of a certain salt in the form of yellow bile; this medicament will purge it through your natural excretory system. It will, I must warn you—forgive me for speaking indelicately, but I must do so in the name of medicine—it will provoke urine and loosen the bowels notably for a day or two, until the balance is restored, but happily you will feel the positive effect much more quickly." This explanation was tailored to fit the best medical science of the time and place.

"How quickly?" Lorenzo asked.

"Within hours." She spoke confidently. "Take two to start, and then one every hour until you get relief—which should be in three to four hours, but may be sooner."

He looked sharply at her face. She did not speak as doctors usually spoke about their hopes for treating him, which was to hem and haw and lament that if only they had been called in earlier…and normally he would have dismissed her as a foolish female who had an inflated idea of her own intelligence and skill. But she spoke as knowledgably as any (invariably male) doctor, and despite her apparent youth, there was something…

Mario Auditore interrupted his thoughts. "She is trustworthy. I will vouch for her. You may take what she offers you without fear, and I urge you to do so. More than you know may depend on it."

"And I vouch for her also," Ezio added. "Upon my word as an Auditore."

"Should I vouch too?" Claudia offered timidly, which made everyone but Ginevra laugh, and she at least smiled.

"Upon my word," Lorenzo said, "if you were to poison me, I should welcome it if only this pain would cease." He took two tablets from the box, and lifted his wine glass of Chianti, preparing to swallow the medicine.

"Stop!" Ginevra commanded. "Your pardon, Ser, but half the treatment will be wasted if you eat and drink foods with a naturally high concentration of that same salt your system labors to excrete. No red wine—no wine at all, if possible, and if you must, then water it very well. Neither can you eat organ meats, ever. I know I speak too boldly and forcefully for a woman, but I do so out of concern and honest friendship, if that is not too presumptuous of me."

"Not for an Auditore, or one who will be one shortly," Lorenzo decided. "Ezio, will you fill my cup from the fountain there? Your health and happiness, Madonna." He swallowed the tablets as Donna Clarice, his wife appeared in the doorway.

"Lorenzo," she asked. "These are our guests? Which is the lady who made me the present of those wonderful soaps and lotions? Never have I seen their like, not here nor in Rome. My ladies and I have all been trying them, and long to thank her. Pray, make her known to me."

He introduced Ginevra and Claudia both. "Oh, and a bride-to-be as well? How wonderful. Please, come inside, both of you. Tell me, when are you to be married?"

"When we return to Monteriggioni, which is in a week or so," Ginevra answered. "It will be very quiet, for as you can see, I am in mourning…" The three women disappeared into the palazzo.

"I know my wife when she gets to talking," Lorenzo predicted. "This medicine may well have time to take effect before she returns. Will you not have a seat, Ser Mario? And Ezio too. While they are gone—why don't you tell me what is really going on?"

* * *

TBC…as ever. I'm sorry for not updating in so long and I'm very sorry if I didn't reply to your review, but I had the week from hell and I cannot remember who I replied to and who I didn't.


	25. An Anodyne

About an hour after our hostess had requested the pleasure of my company, I was running out of steam. I had met, admired and even held some of the youngest members of the Medici family, including Baby Giuliano, who had needed a diaper change-he was a sweetie, though-and I didn't see an end in sight. Sometimes one has to make the best of a bad situation, and when one is in the Palazzo Medici stuck talking to Lorenzo's rather dull wife Clarice instead of to the man himself—well, I wanted his medicine to work almost as much as he did.

I doubt there are many women who could shine in comparison to a spouse like Lorenzo—of course the moon will look dull in comparison to the sun—but one thing was for certain, Clarice didn't shine even with reflected light. It wasn't a matter of intelligence, but of personality. She was perfectly nice, but she had no discernable sense of humor. I had never studied her in any detail, not as I'd studied her spouse, but then, no one did. She was significant only in who she married and who she gave birth to—which is an easy attitude to take when you're talking about a figure in a history text, but not as simple when you're faced with a living, feeling human being. It seemed to me that she could use some of Maria's antidepressants, too.

I pressed on as gamely as I could:

"Just lye, olive oil, and essence of lavender, refined with sea salt," I explained. "The worse possible grade of oil works best for soap-making, I find. The lotion is made from a liquid by-product which my father called glycerin, churned up with rosewater, some distilled alcohol to preserve it, and a little wax to keep it from separating. These are what I use myself, and have for many years."

"Not so _very_ many years, I think," smiled one of Clarice's ladies nastily.

"You might be surprised," I replied, smoothly and pleasantly. "I'm older than I look. Before you ask how old, I admit to twenty-four."

Personal hygiene wasn't exactly at its peak in Renaissance Europe, as people thought bathing brought on the plague, and there was hardly anyone who couldn't benefit from more contact with soap and water. Not to mention that the cosmetics in general use in Renaissance Italy were eye make-up made with antimony, which was poisonous, a white, lead-based foundation, (who didn't know how toxic lead was?) and a rouge made from cinnabar, which was mercuric oxide and also very poisonous.

After ten years or so of that, was it any wonder that many women looked much older than they should? If I mention 'Heath Ledger's Joker,' that won't mean anything to my readers, so I will say: A badly keyed plaster wall, ready to crack and fall off. A mild soap and gentle moisturizer would have done wonders for any of these women. Even those who didn't make up, like my hostess.

"Twenty-four!" was the general surprised comment.

"So _that_ explains it," Claudia burst out. "Mother wondered how you could be so wise, so young." Most of the ladies laughed, but not our hostess.

"Might I ask for the recipes?" Clarice requested. I quickly accessed my database for details about her. Clarice Orsini, 1453-1487. Born into a conservative, deeply religious family in Rome (which had yet to experience its own Renaissance), married Lorenzo at age fifteen. Couldn't have been easy for her—Firenze in general and Lorenzo's family in particular were this age's liberal, secular humanists.

I made a show of thinking about it for a moment. "I should like to ask Ser Mario first. My father—was a very good man, and a great physician, but he never settled down in one place. He was searching for the Medica Magestica, the one treatment which would cure any disease and heal any wound, you see. He never found it, but he discovered many remedies and useful things along the way. I often hoped that he would see that what he had achieved had value in itself, but….

"Father's manuscripts and formulas are all the dowry I have, and as such, belong to Ser Mario now. But you need only ever send for what you want, Donna Clarice." I wasn't pandering to the patriarchal establishment by saying that. In truth, I was hoping to turn soap manufacturing and lotion making into a cottage industry around Monteriggioni, and giving out the recipe for my wonder soap would quash that.

"Thank you," Clarice smiled. Oh, ouch. I winced as I processed the next bit of information.

Lorenzo's mother Lucrezia had picked out her son's bride like a horsebreeder choosing a filly to mate with her prize stallion, never giving a thought as to whether they would be compatible. Clarice was young , healthy, had the right bloodlines, and was good looking enough. Lucrezia wanted grandchildren with aristocratic connections, and she got them. Lorenzo and Clarice had nine children, six of whom lived to adulthood. By those standards, the marriage was a success. By any others—well, nobody expected this to be a love match except maybe Clarice.

Plus, she had never really taken to Firenze and Firenze had never really taken to her. Partly it was because of her origins: she was Roman, not Florentine. An aristocratic outsider, a foreigner. Again, that was Lucrezia's fault. In order to avoid singling out one Florentine family as especially favored by choosing their daughter to marry Lorenzo, and thereby giving offense to all the families of Firenze whose daughters weren't chosen, she went all the way to Rome. Thus alienating _all _the families, not just most of them. Clarice herself did the rest. She seemed haughty and proud, but I had centuries of experience reading people, and what I saw was someone quiet and shy who knew she didn't measure up to the sophisticated, witty Florentine beauties. As a result, Clarice had to be rather lonely.

Poor kid. And that explained why she was making so much of me. I thought enough of her to bring her a present. She thought I was nice. How many people sought out Lorenzo, flattered him and plied him with bribes-I mean, gifts? Plenty. How many people courted Clarice the same way? Very damn few, I was willing to bet.

And in just seven years, she was going to die quite suddenly and unexpectly of tuberculosis. I scanned her. Um. Having nine kids before she was twenty-six had taken its toll on her health, but I already knew she wasn't going to carry to term again. It was her lungs I was most concerned with, and there, dormant in some scar tissue from an attack that probably looked like bronchitis, lingered the White Plague. She was already infected. She would die at age thirty-four. Lorenzo would never love her, and her name would barely be an adjunct to his glory throughout history. Poor kid.

What made Clarice's life worth less than Lorenzo's? Was she not as worthy of a long life and good health because she was a woman, and left less of a mark on history?

I knew the answers to that. No value judgments. All human life is of equal worth.

Curing tuberculosis was going to be a bitch. That damn bacillus mutated like the roster of Marvel Comics characters and became antibiotic resistant fast. It was already on my list of Things To Do In The Distant Future Provided We All Survive, though, so I guess I would have to fast track it. In the meantime I could put up with a bit of boredom and be her friend if she wanted. Couldn't Lorenzo hurry up and feel better before I ran out of small talk, though?

* * *

About an hour and a half after that:

"-should have hired you for the Siege of Volterra, Mario, and not Montefeltro. He was so busy reading it took him hours to notice his troops were ransacking the town, raping and killing friend and foe alike," Lorenzo remembered bitterly. "Dear God, the carnage..." Then he blinked, made a fist and opened it again several times, flexing his fingers. The arthritis in his hands was nothing compared to his feet at the time, but he did have it.

A wide smile of pure joy washed the somber cynicism from his austere features as he kicked over the table that concealed his feet. Leaping up, he wriggled his toes in the grass as if he were a small child again. "Incredible! There isn't even any residual soreness! I didn't believe it was possible." He bent to prod and press his big toes with the ball of his thumb until they turned white, an action which would have caused him to pass out from the pain only hours before. Then a look of surprise and concern crossed his face. "Excuse me-."

Fortunately, the Florentines of that day and age strongly believed in the benefits of a thorough colon cleanse, and expected that any decent medical professional would also.

About twenty minutes later, a beaming Lorenzo was writing a substantial draft on the Dowry Fund (in which half the liquid wealth of Firenze was invested).

"Let us be better friends, Ser Mario. However it came about, I congratulate you on your marriage. I will be praying for its success: the Auditore were ever as strong, true and sharp as the blades they wear. The world needs more of them."

"Thank you, Ser Lorenzo," Mario took the check and glanced at it. His eyebrows flicked upward in surprise for a split second as he folded the paper, tucking it into his sleeve. Lorenzo was generous as a matter of policy, on the grounds that showing gratitude to people encouraged them to do more for him and for others to follow suit and do likewise.

"It is my pleasure, Ser. I have sent for Donna Ginevra- but, tell me, before she arrives, is there anything she desires in particular which I might give her?"

"Her father left a manuscript," Ezio put in, "I think what would please her most is that it should be published, that his genius should be known to the world and his name not forgotten."

"Then it will be so," Il Magnifico declared. At that moment, Ginevra reappeared in the courtyard, followed by Claudia and shortly behind them, Clarice. Lorenzo swooped down on his benefactress without warning, seizing her hands, and kissed her on each cheek. "Donna Ginevra, my thanks are not nearly enough for the good you have done me. Whatever destiny or fate bestowed you upon an Auditore, it could not be more fitting. She brought me a sovereign remedy for gout, based on her father's prescription. In only a few hours, it has undone the suffering of years," he explained to his surprised wife. "See?" He was even wearing shoes.

"Then I must add my thanks to his, for relieving his pain relieves mine too," Clarice replied, wincingly sincere.

"So, tell me, Dottorina, what must follow? How many of these tablets must I take, and what other proscriptions shall I follow? Command me, and I will do it." While not a handsome man, the force of Lorenzo's personality was such that it was hard to notice he wasn't.

"You took four in all so far, did you not?" she asked. At his nod, she said, "Then for the next two days, take four each day. After that, one a day, unless you have another acute attack. I have here a list of foods and drink to avoid and those that will do you the best good. In short, no fatty meat, no game or organ meats, especially not kidneys; they are poison to you. As little wine as possible and well watered at that. No seafood or saltwater fish. No sugar, very little salt. Eat fruits and vegetables in season, lean meat in moderation or sparingly, whole grains, freshwater fish, and citrus fruit especially; also, milk and cheese, whether it be cow's, sheep's, or goat's does not matter. There are so many varieties of cheese that even the most demanding of gourmets must find delight for his palate in sampling them. Always rise from the table feeling as though you could eat a little more, and finally, take moderate to vigorous exercise for an hour or two each day, five or six days of the week."

"I tell her to order me, and she gives me instructions to do what I like best," Il Magnifico laughed. "If she follows this course in your married life, Ser Mario, I think you will be a very happy man. Now," he suddenly grew serious. "Having spoken to your betrothed and his nephew, I must tell you we have decided it is best that this be kept secret among those who are now here, for my safety and yours. No one must know where I get my medication, or rather, my regular physician must get the credit. I do not think you would like your name to be bandied about, in any case, would you?"

"No," she replied. "I think silence is best where I am concerned. Believe me, I want to go unnoticed."

"A very becoming modesty," Clarice offered, a little awkward. "I- - have but few friends, Donna Ginevra. I hope you will be one."

"Of course," Ginevra replied, and smiled like the sun.

* * *

A/N: Reviews are love.


	26. Borgia

-and far away, Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia is present as Pope Sixtus IV is robed, pretending not to covet with his eyes one particular part of the Pontiff's regalia; the papal staff, which is a Piece of Eden. Perhaps Sixtus sees his interest anyway, for he commands, "Hand me the staff."

Borgia reaches out a hand in which the ecclesiastical ring already has cut a groove into his fat flesh, and for the first time in his life, makes contact with one of the Pieces. It is blood warm, strange for a piece of metal, but that is perhaps the least strange thing about it. Pieces of Eden exist simultaneously in past, present and future, so touching one can provoke disturbing visions and even more disturbing emotions.

Dawn: a Neapolitan landscape, and a woman emerges from a great trench cut into the earth hefting with ease a chunk of marble she should not be able to lift. Grimy, small and plain, he thinks, (at least plain in comparison to his gorgeous concubine Vannozza), insignificant looking. But his stomach churns with acid and anger, for this is his first glimpse of a mortal enemy. Worse—an _immortal_ one.

"Three Borgia for three Auditore. That's fair, isn't it?" a low voice asks, a voice unknown to him.

"I will not assassinate a child," Ezio Auditore avows, unseen, "Not even a child of his."

"Not _assassinate_. _Rescue_. Rescue from inevitable corruption, from incest, fratricide and more."

Then a sullen red river, flowing sluggishly, black and grey flakes edging it. At the source of it is a pool of oriflamme and most amazing of all, a _lyre_, of all things, floats on the surface of the pool, glowing white-gold. Someone reaches for it, and never touches it, because his flesh—his flesh catches flame. He doesn't even get out a scream—.

Then a woman's face, beautiful and cold, but alien. Her eyes speak of her Asian origin, but she speaks a purer Italian than he does. "So that's Borgia. I was expecting something more impressive, or at least with a little charisma." Something about her reminds him of the woman from the trench. Not her features, but the sense of agelessness, a face too young for her eyes, and of a more than human smoothness to her movements.

"Isn't that always the way with celebrities?" commiserates a man's voice, mock solemn, and Borgia turns to face him. This one looks—Arabic, perhaps. Byzantine? Levantine? Again, the face is too young for the experience in its expression. "History makes them out to be such great figures, and when you finally meet them, they turn out to be smaller than life. Not in physical size, of course." He sniffs. "Now, my stupid little mortal monkey, I am Labienus and this is Lady Kiu. We have come in response to your summons. I understand that one of us is causing you trouble?"

All Borgia can do is nod, because he is simultaneously filled with a dread that he has made the worst mistake of his life, and with fury greater than he has ever known for anyone, not even the Auditore, not even the entire order of Assassins. They at least thought he was a human being, and respected the power and threat he embodied.

"Well, we'll deal with whoever that is—and I think I can guess. Now let me tell you a story, little monkey. It's a parable like your Ieyasu Christos used to tell. Once upon a time, there was a man, a horse, and a poisonous snake. The snake was blocking the path to the river, and the other two were standing there looking at it. They needed to get by, because they needed water. The horse turns to the man and says, 'I can't kill it, because all I have are hooves. Perhaps you with your clever hands can do something.'

" 'I might,' said the man, 'but I'm afraid to be so close to it. Maybe if I got on your back, I could kill it with my spear.'

" 'Then get up, and I will get you closer,' the horse offered.

" 'I can't get on your back unless I'm sure I won't fall,' replied the man. 'If you will let me put this bridle on you, and this saddle, then I can kill the snake.' So the horse let the man put a bit in his mouth, and a contraption of wood and leather on his back, and the man rode to the snake and killed it with ease.

" 'You can get off my back now,' said the horse, once the snake stopped writhing, 'I want to be free again.'

" 'Free? What do you mean, free?' scoffed the man. 'Giddy-up, Dobbin.' Now, the snake is the one you called us to deal with, and I am the man, which makes you the—."

"I can guess what it makes me," Borgia bites out, "But the horse didn't need the man; it could have trampled the snake with its hooves."

"Which makes it an even better metaphor," Labienus beams.

"In other words, better the devil you know than the devil you don't know," Lady Kiu sums up.

-and then it is over. Sixtus has the staff in his hands, and is smiling at him somewhat crookedly. "It takes everyone like that the first time," he says. "Don't worry, you'll forget all about it in a moment, just like waking from a dream."

"But I don't want to forget—," Even as he says it, Borgia knows it is true. Like a word written on beach sand at the very place where the waves roll up, the vision's sharp details melt, and then all is effaced completely, leaving him only with a sense of dread.


	27. The Mercato Vecchio

"For a man who always claims to be no more than a simple, plain soldier who prefers action to words, you are remarkably well-spoken, Ser Mario." I commented as we left the Palazzo Medici. "Not to mention the extensive library with books in languages most scholars would not attempt." I gave him a look to tell him I was teasing, but he answered in a more serious vein.

"Words can be a weapon too. When a well-crafted letter can avert the destruction of a city, I had better be able to write it. Highly trained, professional fighting men are this condottiere's stock in trade," he gestured to his chest with a thumb. "I do not consider them merely expendable, nor do I like to waste them. Not to mention the many other lives at stake in war."

"Every time I talk to you, I find something else to admire," I told him, and Claudia made an 'ack' noise.

"I think I shall be sick in the street," she muttered to her brother.

"It could hardly make the street any dirtier," I observed. "but it would detract from your dignity, so try to contain yourself."

"I don't know why I expected that getting to come along would improve her temper," Mario wondered.

"She's so busy resenting the fact that she won't get to stay here that she isn't enjoying being here," I cast a glance at her sulky face.

"I'm _right here_!" she exclaimed, and Ezio laughed.

"And where were they when you spoke of being sick? Give up and put a smile on your face before you get yourself in more trouble."

"The question is," Mario looked up and down the street, "how shall we all pass the time until dinner? I have some business associates I must call on, but what about the rest of you?"

"Shopping!" Claudia jumped in immediately.

"I was going to see Leonardo," Ezio said.

"I have a long list of things I need," I said, "but it begins with a hundredweight of sea salt and ends with a jeroboam of vitriol, if such a thing is to be had. If I am to get the best prices I will have to shop around, so it will take several days. I'd rather visit Leonardo today—he might even know where I ought to go."

"But what about me?" Claudia protested. "I can't go shopping on my own, and I don't want to visit those kinds of shops."

"Don't worry," Ezio told her, "Once she and Leonardo get to talking about art or scientific instruments, they'll be at it for hours. You and I will go make the rounds of the market then."

While they were saying that, Mario said, "You don't have to wear yourself out going all over Firenze to save a few quadrini here and there; Il Magnifico's generosity will cover anything short of buying a house."

"Ah, but you don't understand. What hunting is for men, shopping is for women. The thrill of the chase, the anticipation—then the kill—there is nothing like the satisfaction of a truly good bargain."

"_Nothing_?" he asked, with that twinkle. "But those are all in the way of business—isn't there anything you want just for yourself? You ought to buy a few things you fancy too—I know my niece will."

"Uncle!" she protested.

We ignored her. "Yes, there is, actually. I have only the shoes on my feet, and they won't last long, given the sort of life I lead." I put one foot out from under my skirt to show a scrape along the edge.

"Then order what you like. I will see you back at the inn." For propriety's sake, we couldn't kiss on a public street, so we settled for a quick hand clasp and parted.

"Leonardo doesn't live far from here, does he?" I asked, orienting myself.

"No, not far," Ezio said, and we set off.

The problem was that when we got there, he was out. "He hasn't gone on a trip somewhere, has he?" I tried to recall the date when he left for Venice, and by my calculation, he should still have been in Firenze.

"I don't think so." Ezio climbed up on the workshop roof and felt the chimney. "It's warm, and I smell fresh smoke. I think he's gone out somewhere."

"So what do we do?" Claudia asked.

"Go shopping, I guess," I shrugged. "Where shall it be—the Ponte Vecchio or the Mercato Vecchio?"

"The Mercato's a little closer." Ezio pointed out, and we legged it in that direction.

* * *

Meanwhile:

La Volpe, the head of the Florentine Thieves' Guild and Senior Assassin, lived over the shop, as it were—over the headquarters of the Guild, which happened to overlook the Mercato Vecchio, and he was one of the 'business associates' of whom Mario Auditore spoke.

Unaware of the impending change in plans, Mario crossed the bustling market square, nodded to the loitering quartet of thieves on lookout duty, and went up the stairs to the Fox's Den, as it was called, for the man who dwelt there: La Volpe, the Fox. Not surprisingly, La Volpe was expecting him, as was Paola, the unofficial spokesperson of the city's sex workers and also an Assassin; their intelligence network had informed them minutes after the Auditore family entered Firenze.

"Mario," La Volpe greeted him, " Welcome. Come in and have a cup. You need to wash the dust of travel out of your mustache." Tall and spare, La Volpe favored the colors of the animal from whom he took his nom de guerre, the russet, white and orange of a fox's coat. He had a strong, beaky nose crested by bushy, graying eyebrows, and a humorous, mobile mouth below it, but his most memorable features were his eyes, an astonishing violet. He was neither young, by the lines of his face, nor old, by the athletic grace and ease of his movements. It was rumored that he did not age and that he was immortal, among other things, and while the second was as yet unproven, the first part was not true. He did age, only more slowly than the norm. He also could see through solid objects, which neither Mario nor Ezio could.

"Thank you," Mario replied. "I need it. From the road to the inn only to change before heading to the Palazzo Medici, and now here—. We should have been here last night, but who would have guessed that it's easier to move an entire army than one single family? Except maybe for the gentlemen of the cavalry who're above following orders… It was dropping my sister-in-law off at the convent that did it. Their grounds abutted the main road, but their buildings were over a mile off it, and only a goat trail in between."

"Here, let me. You've suffered enough." Paola rose from her seat and undulated over to the decanter and cups like a scarlet cobra patterned in gold. A tall, slender brunette, her gown was as fine as any lady of the court's, as were her jewels, but her bodice's low neckline just passed the point of respectability without descending to the vulgar. She poured a cup for Mario and gave it to him, saying, "Your message reached us three days ago, but it was more mysterious than informative. "

"My apologies," he said, raising the glass to her, "but I did not want to trust what I have to relate to any written message, however well encrypted. First, what would you say if I told you Lorenzo's gout no longer troubles him?"

The other two Assassins traded glances. "I would say it was a tragedy and a disaster," Paola ventured, "because that would mean he must perforce be dead."

La Volpe nodded agreement. "Everyone knows that when the gout is chronic and well entrenched, as his is, it does not let go until the afflicted is dead. Yet I do not hear the tocsin tolling, as it would were Il Magnifico passed from this life."

"He is not dead," Mario reassured them, "yet neither does he suffer from his gout anymore. Not a quarter of an hour ago I left him, entirely free from pain and not due to poppy syrup either, but a new medication specific for the gout, made by one of superior knowledge, undoubted skill, even to the point of genius, perhaps. This person's loyalties are unclear and her origin dubious, but at least she is placed where she can be watched very closely."

"She?" Paola asked.

"Who?" La Volpe echoed.

Mario walked over to the window, put his wineglass down on the sill the better to fight with the clasp of his cloak, untangling his hair where it was caught, stalling for time. "My wife." he admitted, "Ginevra Schiavoni, who is—who is right there." The windows of the Fox's Den were not glazed, but had lattices to admit light while keeping out prying eyes, and it was through one of the apertures that Mario first saw his nephew's unmistakable hood and then his wife's veiled head next to Claudia's.

Dashing across the room, Paola and La Volpe nearly collided in their rush to catch a glimpse of Mario's hitherto unknown spouse.

"She must be the small one in black," Paola observed. "Or—not so small."

"Since when are you married?" the Fox asked.

"Two weeks ago we were betrothed by the prete," Mario told them, "and two days ago we consummated it. When I took her hand before the father, I swear I intended to not bed her, but—," he shrugged eloquently, "I never met such a winning creature, nor one that pleased me more."

"Uhm-hum," Paola insinuated. "I see."

"I've experience of the women of three continents and more countries than I can recall," Mario snapped, "It wasn't her charms alone that moved me, and if it were flesh alone I wanted, there are courtesans enough in Monteriggioni. It was everything else—her wit and liveliness of mind, the compassion she showed my sister-in-law, her spirit, even her sadness—it would have taken a saint on the verge of heaven to resist. I wooed her and bedded her, and there it is."

"You are in love," Paola wondered.

"Fire nine times tried this," Mario thumped his chest, right over his heart, "and left it harder, not softer."

"Yet now I think it has caught fire," La Volpe jibed. "There is more to this than you have yet told—uh-oh."

"What is it?" Mario asked.

"A scavenger—that is, a non-Guild pickpocket." La Volpe pointed out the man who wavered, watching Ginevra look over the goods at a cobbler's stall. Her gold-netted belt purse bulged temptingly, full of florins. "Guild members know better than to target Ezio or anyone with him, but the free-range cluckers are more desperate than wise. They'll run if he makes eye-contact, but I'll give him credit, when he does have to chase one down to get his coin back, he only gives them a quick drubbing and turns them loose."

The skinny ill-dressed drifter made up his mind. Ginevra seemed oblivious, intently inspecting the stitching on a sample shoe as he made a grab for her purse—but her arm blurred and instead he caught an elbow in the gut. As he doubled over, her hand flew up and back to deliver a facer that laid him on the ground among rotting cabbage leaves. Only then did she look around, blinking as innocently as a kitten, while people jumped back, exclaiming.

"Well done," La Volpe cried out, and Paola clapped her hands together as the Assassins chortled with appreciation.

"That's my Ginevra," Mario smiled, shaking his head. Below them on the square, Ezio had taken charge and was hurrying them away.

"I think I like your wife already," Paola decided. "But her skill is—worrisome."

"I know," Mario sighed. "Having espoused her, I now come to you to lay out what I know of her, that you might judge whether I shall have to kill her."


	28. Questions and More Questions

"If you wish it, of course we will," Paola said, after exchanging a look with La Volpe, "but what is it that so concerns you?" Where Mario was a strategist of the first order, La Volpe, despite his alternative profession, was a political specialist and Paola knew all the secrets, vices and predilections of every person of note within her purview— intimately, in some cases.

"It's not easily explained. At best—at best her story is incredible and even incomprehensible, and at worst, she may be a Templar tool."

"Tell us," La Volpe said, fixing his eyes on Mario's face.

The heavy fur cape was suddenly stifling; Mario wrenched the clasp open and tossed it aside. Paola slid into one of the chairs placed around the table with the painted map of Firenze on its top, and the male Assassins followed suit. "Two weeks ago, Ezio rode into town with Ginevra mounted on the horse behind him. All she had with her, other than a handful of florins, was a chest she calls a credenza. This credenza has more knowledge in it than all the libraries of the world combined and can process raw materials into all sorts of useful things, gout medicine included.

"At first I thought he'd got her in trouble and come to confess it, but then he came out with this incredible tale about being on top of the Campanile when she popped up in front of him. He ran her through, and if that were not enough, she then fell off the tower and landed on the stone pavement. Her skull should have shattered open like a melon, but it seems her bones don't break. She was still alive, so he scooped her up and carried her to Da Vinci's, where they both watched her wounds close up. Within an hour, she was sitting up and talking to them."

Mario paused a moment to drink his wine. La Volpe spoke. "That means that she, like you and I and Ezio, is descended of- of those who came before, the Makers of Eden. In some people the blood is stronger than others, we know that."

"And you better than most," Paola said. La Volpe was over a hundred years old, and showed no signs of slowing down. In a race across rooftops, he not only left Ezio behind, but broken winded as well.

"Not so, or so she says. She was not born what she is, but made, taken from the cradle to have her bones replaced, her blood altered, her sinews taken out and strange filaments run through her instead, her fertility stolen, all to the purpose of making her immortal. She heals so fast that she's eternally young, but it comes with a price. The ones who did it live at the other end of time, in the far future, when the world is worn out and tired. The only thing that's left to mine is the past, so they created themselves immortal slaves to do it for them."

"I begin to see why you're so concerned. If these masters, these makers of hers have a Piece of Eden and know how to use it, they could very well do that. If they're Templars as well—." La Volpe began, but Mario shook his head.

"She says not, or not that she knows of. I don't under stand this very well, but according to her, she's like a castaway on our shores; the Firenze she was supposed to go to was one in which dozens of her kind busily labor away, and instead she ended up here alone. Having nowhere to go and no one else, she's come to us like—like a stray cat, wanting only to be treated well and allowed to stay. In return… In return she offers not only remedies for gout, but all the knowledge at her disposal, cures for other diseases, ways to ease pain and help suffering. She predicts, among other things, that 1492 is a year of disaster not only for Italy but for the world.

"Lorenzo is going to die, Rodrigo Borgia becomes pope, and an explorer named Corombo is going to go looking for a shorter way to the Indies but wind up on a continent no European has yet set foot on. She wants to keep all three from coming to pass. She volunteered this before Ezio said anything about Borgia, and she guessed who he wanted a gout cure for. She also deduced that I was responsible for designing Iltani's tomb in the Duomo, and why."

"All those predictions are entirely possible," La Volpe said, after a pause. "It's no secret Borgia is after the papacy. I have no idea who this Corombo is, but there are plenty of people who want faster and safer trade routes, and left untreated, Lorenzo's gout would probably take a decade to get around to killing him. Ezio is…more inclined to take people at face value than he probably should be. He doesn't question their motives as we would. He never even wondered why I, apparently only a thief, should be able to speak authoritatively about the pope's behavior, so I'm not surprised he didn't question why she should be so helpful. What answer does she give as to her motivation? Is it sheer altruism on her part?"

"Not entirely," Mario frowned into his cup, "She finds Borgia distasteful like she would a handful of maggots in a dish of sweetmeats. Her real motive is revenge against her makers and their credo that recorded history cannot be changed. A cat catches mice because it's a cat, not just because you want them out of the pantry. Our goals just chance to march together. If she is genuine, that is. I believe she believes she's telling the truth."

He regarded the wineglass he held, Venetian work, thin as a sigh and clear as water, horrifically expensive and (of course), stolen goods. "In some ways she is as easy to see through as this glass, and nearly as fragile. Oh, and finally—she says she cannot kill a human being. They made her kind so, somehow, that their slaves might not rise up against them in revolt. And the name under which they do business is Dr. Zeus."

"Dr. Zeus!" Paola exclaimed. "Does that not make it even more likely she was made with the help of a piece of Eden, or is of the blood of the ones who came before?"

"Curiously enough, that seems to me to make her story more credible, not less so. I must needs consider this," La Volpe said, and lapsed into silence, closing his eyes and making a steeple of his fingers.

"Have you seen this rapid healing for yourself?" Paola asked.

"Yes," Mario replied, "twice. The first time, she did herself an injury to demonstrate. The second, she was preparing lye for soap, and the pot handle broke. Her arm—the sleeve melted, and I can vouch that her bones are no longer bone, for I saw them with my own eyes. Yet by the dinner hour, her flesh was as sound and her skin as smooth as a baby's. There is no scar nor skin flaw anywhere on her body. I can vouch for that, too."

"Hmmm," Paola hummed insinuatingly. "But did she feel it?"

"The burn? Yes, it hurt her. Her face—she wept and pounded the floor with her other hand, but she never made a sound. So no one else would know of it, and wonder, she said, after." Mario replied.

"How old is she, if she does not seem to age?" Paola sat up.

"Not so much younger than I. Forty-eight. I'm glad of it rather than otherwise; whatever the world may think, I am not so much the lecher."

"Then she might actually be much older, since it does not show," the courtesan pointed out.

Mario smiled devilishly. "One thing I learned early on in my dealings with women is that a woman's age is whatever she says it is. I am not so unmannerly as to contradict a lady."

Paola laughed. "Very wise of you."

He shrugged. "Eighteen, forty-eight, older, it does not matter. She is herself, whatever her years. It is certain, though, that I have the most interesting young wife in all Italy, and even beyond."

"Is there anything...different about her?" she pressed.

"Different? Only in small ways. When she isn't talking to anyone, just sitting and reading, say, one could mark time by her blinks. This I measured, and counting slowly, I get to twenty every time. Wine might as well be water for all that it affects her, but a confection she brought, something she calls chocolate, makes her giddy. She shared it with me. It's tasty stuff, but it affected me no more than sugared almonds. But if you are asking what I think you are— of the ways in which all women are the same, and all women different—well, having boasted of my experience of women, I can say there are those who, seen in the light of noon, one would think them lush as a garden in bloom, but at night between the sheets, one finds their nectar dried up years before. Likewise there are those who seem bitten by a killing frost who prove to be fire underneath, and still others who are exactly as they seem, whether it be fresh May or blowsy November. Given that we are speaking of my wife…I will not say."

She gave him a sideward glance from her sherry-colored eyes. "An even wiser answer."

"If she is immortal," La Volpe said suddenly, startling them, "and cannot be killed, then how would you kill her, if you have to?"

"Kill is not the right word," Mario grimaced. "Incapacitate, I should have said. She told me of how she was rendered what we would call dead by Germans, when she was living amongst Jews at Dr. Zeus' orders. For several years she rotted in a pit of quicklime, until her bones separated, and she was helpless, unable to move nor speak. Bringing her back took still more years. Should it come to that, if she were disjointed and her limbs buried or burned far apart from each other, I doubt she would be able to return without help of a kind she cannot get here."

"So she trusted you with the secret of how she is vulnerable, and the way to do it." La Volpe concluded. "Paola, what insights have you, before I speak?"

"I cannot say, for I do not know her. There are things one woman can tell about another that no man would ever see. What you call transparency may be a mirror." the courtesan said. "However, I can tell you what you fear, and it's not merely that she may be a Templar agent. You're afraid of doting too much on her, of being taken for a fool, and of a time when you're too old or too sick to satisfy her, or both. That is no great insight on my part, nor of folly on yours. Emotions are one part of us that never wears out or wrinkles or gets fat. Yes, my tongue _is_ as sharp as this little toy." She snapped open her fan; unlike the paper flirtations of the street courtesans, hers was a battle fan of Damascus steel that looked like grey watered silk, the edges honed to razor keenness.

"Thank you, Paola," La Volpe deflected the potential conflict. "What I say is—as incredible as her tale is, it's too abstract for the Templars to have come up with it, too subtle. I am inclined to believe her.

"If they could use a Piece of Eden to come back in time," the master thief continued, "they wouldn't do so to place her with us like that. They don't use a stiletto when they can use a siege engine instead. If it were a plot wrought by Templars today, either an internal culling to remove Borgia or with Borgia's involvement—then Borgia would be her mortal enemy. She wouldn't simply find him distasteful. They would make _sure_ she loathed him, one way or another. He wouldn't be above raping her himself first, before handing her over to a troop of his men. If she came to you as his victim, as full of hatred for him as the sea is full of salt, you'd give her a haven and accept her help, but it's a moot point. They wouldn't give up a prize like her and her credenza, and they would choose someone else, someone with a family to hold hostage against her doing what they wanted her to do. Someone with something to lose. Your stray cat has no one but those who took her in—and cats are territorial. You can keep your wife, Mario. For the foreseeable future, that is."

"That's one against killing her and one who abstains," Paola said. "I reserve my judgment for later."


	29. Birdbrains

"Twenty-five florins, and that's final," said the bird seller, crossing his arms and setting his chin at an angle that said he meant it. "And mind you, you have to take all of them. No returns." This wasn't one of the regular bird sellers; Leonardo knew them all on sight, and they knew him in return. (They also all thought he was a little mad, but since he was an excellent repeat customer, they knew better than to complain.)

Wondering why the man was so firm about him taking all the birds, Leo undid his belt pouch, shaking his coins out into his other hand. "Twenty florins-twenty-two. Eight quadrini-ah, there it is. Twenty five florins."

The money changed hands, and the seller nodded towards his cart. "All yours, Maestro," he said, cheerfully, and laughed. "I'm off to get me a drink. A large one."

Reaching for the cage on the very top of the stack, Leonardo glanced at the receding back of the bird seller, concerned for a moment as to whether their transaction had been quite legal, but then he shrugged. In a moment, all the evidence would be gone, anyway. He undid the twist of wire that held the finch cage shut and opened the door. Chirping, the little birds fluttered out and up into the sky.

Whenever he was low-spirited, Leonardo liked to set something free, even if it was only something as small as a finch. Next were three cages of doves. He emptied one and was reaching for the next when a familiar voice said, "In those parts of Asia where they follow the teachings of the Buddha, setting something free is considered a meritorious spiritual act, so the bird sellers set up in front of the temples and shrines. After a while, the birds get so tame that they fly back to their cages, knowing they'll be fed."

He turned. "Ginevra! I'm so glad you're here, because I've been studying cells from a lot of different sources under the microscope—I've made some great improvements to it—and I've noticed that some cells are doing something peculiar. I want you to have a look." he said, for it was she who had spoken. Then he spotted her companions. " _And_ Ezio! There's no one I would rather meet here today," he said, happily. He had many acquaintances, but few true friends.

"Just the man we've been looking for," Ezio remarked.

"Oh, did you stop by the workshop? I'm sorry, I was running a few errands. This young lady must be your sister, Ezio. Am I right?"

"Yes, this is Claudia." Ezio said, putting his hand on the girl's shoulder. _Oh, dear_. Claudia was blushing and staring at him, her mouth open and her expression suggesting a gasping fish. This could be quite awkward. As handsome and talented as he was, Leonardo was used to garnering admiration from both sexes, but while he liked some women very much as friends—Paola, the madam of La Rosa Colta, for one, and of course Ginevra—when it came to bedsport, well, it was his sin and his shame that he preferred men. He did not understand why, but he believed he had been born that way.

The last thing he wanted was for Ezio's baby sister to form a passion for him. How ironic, if the _wrong_ Auditore fell in love with him….

She gulped hard and pasted a tremulous smile on her face. "So pleased to finally meet you, Ser Leonardo," she said. "But-why are you doing that?"

"Birds should be free," he said, simply, and opened up the dove cage.

"I'm sorry to say, amico, that your meritorious spiritual act has left a souvenir on your sleeve," Ezio remarked, pointing. Yes, a bird had muted there, leaving a small grey and white blob.

"A small price to pay," he said, and freed the next cage of doves. "I got your letter, Ginevra. Since you said you would be here very soon, I didn't answer it. May I offer you every hope for your future happiness?"

The news that she was betrothed to Ezio's uncle had come as quite a surprise, yet more astonishing still was her smile, shy and—as young as she appeared to be. "Thank you. I'm sure nearly everyone thinks at the beginning that a marriage will prosper, but I think I have as good a chance as any at happiness."

"I was very glad to hear from you that Donna Maria is doing better. I wrote to her—I don't suppose she'll have received it yet—." The bottom cage was covered with a cloth, and proved unexpectedly heavy. "Uhh— why is this one made of metal?" As he picked it up, it came apart into three pieces, and a wad of dirty grey washing flopped ungracefully on the ground.

Then it got up, moving like a very old man, spread its wings, hissed, and said, "Oh! Oh! That bad bird! That bad, bad, bird!", and hissed again. Its voice wasn't human, but hoarse and metallic, grating on the ears. Yet it was distinct and perfectly intelligible. The beak on it looked like a crab's claw, only black, and its tongue was black as well. There was a patch of bald, raw skin on its breast, and the patterns on its feathers made it look wrinkled. The only beautiful thing about it was its tail, which was crimson.

"_What_ is_ that_?" Leonardo asked, looking down at the ugly creature, which eyed him with an uncanny intelligence, bobbing its head up and down.

"An African Grey parrot," Ginevra replied. "Poor lad; he's been pulling his feathers out from boredom." Bending over, she placed her hand where the parrot could step up on to it.

"If that thing doesn't shut up, I'm going to wring its neck!" the bird said as she straightened up again.

"He speaks very well," she said, holding her hand, and the bird, out to Leonardo, "That means he's very intelligent. Possibly even the Leonardo of the avian kingdom. The Greys are among the smartest birds, up there with crows and ravens. They also have very long life spans, up to seventy years with care. Often that's a problem, because when their original owner dies, not only are they heartbroken, the heirs don't want them. That might be what happened to him."

"What are you giving it to me for? I don't want it!" Leo backed up.

"You bought him," she pointed out.

"I didn't know I was buying him—that bird seller! I knew he wasn't a regular. He must have set me up!" Leonardo looked around wildly. "Where did he go? I don't want it!"

"He's yours now," Ezio said, looking as if he was trying not to laugh and not succeeding very well.

"I bought the birds to set them free, not because I wanted a pet," Leonardo protested. "Shake him off and let him fly away, like the others."

Ginevra looked at the bird and then at him. "He can't. His wings are clipped." With her free hand, she encouraged the parrot to extend one wing, showing the truncated feathers. "Even if he could, Firenze isn't his natural environment. He'd die."

"But I don't want a—," Leonardo began again. "I don't even know what it eats!"

"Nuts and seeds, fruits and vegetables, some live snails now and then," she replied. "He'll also need to bathe regularly in clean warm water—he could use it now, in fact. You haven't been very well looked after, you? No toys to play with, no baths, and a cage you can't even stretch out in."

"Oh! That bad, bad bird!" it said again. "Bad parrot! Bad!"

"I don't suppose that you—." he tried.

"I would not only have to think about it, I would have to take into consideration the wishes of everyone who would be living in the same house with him for any length of time." Ginevra said, looking at the bird. "Especially since parrots repeat what they hear, and what he mostly seems to have heard are comments about his bad behavior."

"Wicked, wicked, wicked—tra-la-la!" the bird agreed.

"But what would_ I_ do with it?" he asked.

"Take good care of him until his breast feathers grow back, teach him some more edifying phrases, and then find someone who wants a chatty companion animal. When he's better socialized and looking handsome, he'll be a very valuable creature."

"I suppose so…" He reached out to the bird, which looked at his fingers as if it were going to bite him.

"Scratch him very gently, like this," Ginevra demonstrated, combing his neck feathers with her index finger, and the bird squeezed its eyes shut with pleasure.

Leonardo did so, and after a few moments of delicate scratching, the bird readily transferred from Ginevra's hand to his. "You can't go around Firenze with a parrot on your hand like a hunting bird," Ezio protested, laughing.

"It's traditional to wear one's parrot on one's shoulder," Ginevra said, with too much dignity to be serious, "but only if you're contemplating a career as a pirate. Still, it has to be better than this. Here—." She picked up the cloth which had covered the cage, folded it, and laid it over Leonardo's shoulder. "There. Your clothes will be protected if he decides to reward you like the other one did. Now bring your hand up to your shoulder. There he is." The parrot seemed to take to shoulder sitting, but it was a little disconcerting when it stuck its beak in his hair.

"What's it doing?" Leonardo asked, trying not to make any sudden moves.

"He's grooming you. That's a very good sign." Ginevra told him.

"Is it? How intelligent is intelligent? I mean, for a bird?"

"Something like a five year old child," she said.

"That isn't possible!" Claudia burst out. "How do you know so much about parrots, anyway?"

Whatever response Ginevra might have made was lost, as behind them, a girlish voice cried out, "Claudia? Claudia Auditore? Is that you?"

They all turned to see a girl about Claudia's age, attended by both a maidservant and a pageboy. She was wearing a singularly odd hat on her head, all gold ribbon bows and curls, and a fur tippet around her shoulders. She was also pregnant.

"Ariana!" Claudia said, not quite happily, "But you're Donna Ariana Bandini now, aren't you?"

"Oh, la, yes, these three years and more." She rested her hand on her midsection and rubbed it, calling attention to her status and condition. "But where have you _been_? After that—business with your family's disgrace, you just disappeared. I was at the home of Maddelena Corsini the other day, and you came up in the conversation, because Duccio's wife died in childbed, and we remembered you and he had been betrothed once, and no one knew what became of you."

"Monteriggioni," Claudia replied.

"You? What on earth were you doing in the middle of nowhere like that?"

"I wouldn't call it the middle of nowhere," Ginevra smiled pleasantly. "Small, yes, but strategically situated and thriving, but then I am betrothed to the lord of it, and Ezio here is the heir presumptive."

"Oh," said Ariana Bandini, staring at her. It was not really a fair fight, if fight it was, not when one combatant was all of nineteen and the other had the self-possession of nine centuries. Anyone who ever watched two cats sidling around one another, moving in slow motion while never breaking eye contact would have found their attitude toward each other very familiar. Ariana noted the obvious details—simple black dress, veil, no make up—did a quick mental comparison of the approximate worth of their jewelry, and thought she backed down because the stranger's pearls were worth the price of a small villa in the country. Looking as if she now felt foolish for wearing a hat which she had bought because she had been assured it was just like the one Isabella de Este had, and not because it looked good on her, she dropped her eyes. "I beg your pardon, madonna—." She looked toward Claudia for an introduction.

"Donna Ginevra Schaivoni," Claudia said dutifully, "my uncle Mario's betrothed wife. You remember my brother Ezio, and this is our friend Leonardo da Vinci."

"Oh, everyone knows who he is. You're the one who painted Ginevra de' Benci's portrait. What a coincidence, that you and she should both be named Ginevra." she turned to the other woman for a moment. "So! What brings you all to town?" She waved a fixed fan made of peacock feathers lazily, trying to regain some ground.

"Business," Ezio replied. "We three and my uncle called upon the Medici."

"Oh, poor you." said Ariana to Claudia and her somewhat disturbing aunt-to-be. "No doubt you were sent off with Clarice, who was too proud to say a word to you, with her superior ways." She laughed, and it sounded brittle.

"Is that what people say of her?" Donna Ginevra said. "I myself found her a very kind and gracious hostess, although I am sure she has a difficult time of it here. She has a gentle spirit, and if she is quiet I think it is because people look to strike sparks of wit off everything she says, as though she were a flint and they were steel. People without a sense of cruelty have a hard time of it in this world, do they not? Without a touch of it oneself, cruelty is very hard to defend oneself against. But that was only my impression of her, and I only met her for the first time today. I am sure you know her better than I do. "

"Oh, I –I must beg your pardon, I remember now I meant to meet my sister at the Santa Croce cloisters," donna Ariana said hastily, "so I take my leave of you now. But you must come and see me two days from now, Claudia. I'll send the word around for all of us who were girls together to come too. And your aunt will be very welcome, too."

"I look forward to furthering our acquaintance," Ginevra smiled as the girl walked away, waddling slightly because of her pregnancy.

"How did you do that?" Claudia spluttered.

"How did I do what?" Ginevra replied.

"Whatever it was you just did!"

"What? She was just a rather silly young woman trying to make herself out to be more than she is and belittle you while she did it. You may be annoying, but now you're _my_ annoying niece, or nearly, and I do not like people who pick on others. Talk about birdbrains! Frankly, I think rather more of Leonardo's new friend's intelligence than I do of hers. Have you decided what you're going to call him, Leo?"


	30. Foreshadowings

From the Codex of Altair:

The fragments of Eden are many, not one, just as a tree bears many Apples. Knowledge and power united. The flaming Sword which banned our ancestors from the Garden, the Spear which pierced the side of Christ, the Staff with which Moses parted the waters, they too, are fruit of that same tree. Beware them.

A cautionary tale; Orpheus, the musician of legend, was the son of a mortal and a Maker. To him was given a Piece of Eden in the form of a Lyre, apt gift for a musical child. With it he charmed more than the ears of men—beasts, birds, trees, rocks and stones, all moved as he directed them.

The legend as it stands is wrong; he lost his bride Eurydice, not for looking back, but because he went too far. His music, enhanced by the Lyre, swayed even the Makers, and that challenge to their power they would not tolerate. For that, Eurydice died, and he was banned from the Makers' halls, cast out among the mortals. His furious soul and grieving heart infected his music. Despair, anger, longing for death wept from the strings as he played.

His listeners not merely wept-they fell upon their swords, dashed themselves from cliffs, turned quarrelsome and murderous, they fought one another and died. Orpheus then forswore the company of humans and went alone into the wilderness. Yet talent such as his would not be denied. While he lived, he must make music, even though forests toppled, the earth trembled, and rocks split. At last, happening upon a women's' festival, he played and sang a song such as to cause them to run mad, and tear him limb from limb. So Orpheus died.

The Lyre passed through many hands, a curiosity. Only those who bore the Makers' blood could wake its power, and of those there were few. One such was the sixth Caesar. Born to the purple, incestuous lover and killer of she who bore him, he despised the power of Empire, preferring instead the glories of the artist's life.

Unhappily, his talents were too meager for his dreams- unhappier still, the Lyre came his way. Sausage fingers darted like minnows over its strings; his singing, that ass's bray, became lark song to its accompaniment. His joy was too great to be contained, kept private. Such talents as he had must have an audience. His first performance before a crowd came at a temple near Naples. There the other powers of the Lyre were seen; violent tremors shook the earth, yet none in hearing range could move, not even to save themselves. Such was its power. The temple itself collapsed afterward, but Nero cared not.

Throughout his reign, the Lyre both aided and wounded him; the people loved him, enraptured by music, though he burned Christians alive to light his banquets, and then the city itself. Four years passed before we could do our work; history says it was a suicide. Assassins do not work for recognition or for glory. Let suicide stand as the answer. The Lyre was stolen by a priest of Jove Vesuvio, who took it to his temple.

Two cities died of it; the Lyre lies there still, spilling forth its darkest music. Silence the lyre, learn the secrets. Save lives.

(Annotations by Leo. d. V.—Nero's first public music festival in AD 64. Two contemporary accounts state there was an earthquake during his lyre playing, but no one got up and left, despite damage which leveled the amphitheater. Jove Vesuvio—Jupiter of Vesuvius? Two cities probably reference to Pompeii and Herculaneum.)

* * *

"For the good that they have done me, the Auditore might claim anything in my power to give them—positions, honors, lands—and they do not. That is true virtue. When Piero is old enough to understand, I will tell him that these are friends to be cherished above all others, and that they are a living proof that nobility does not spring from blood alone." Lorenzo de Medici had followed the dottorina's orders to get exercise by having a brisk ride around the city, showing himself where he had not been seen for some time, and thereby transmitting the message that he was still very capable of running the city, rumors be damned.

Afterward, he came back to wash and change before dinner, and his wife happened to be in the room when he was thinking out loud to himself. "The younger man, Ser Ezio—it was he who saved your life on that Easter Sunday when the Pazzi turned on you, wasn't it?" Clarice ventured.

If there was one phrase that characterized Lorenzo's treatment of her, and had even before they were wed, it was 'benign neglect'. He was never unkind to her, but with so much else on his mind, his modest and self-effacing wife blended into the background of his life. So it was with some surprise that he remembered he was not alone.

"Yes, it was, and then a year later, he drove the invaders from this house, saving my life again. Hmmm—for such loyalty to this family, perhaps the best way to reward it is to make him a part of it. Yes, for the blood he has shed, blood should be given him, and a life returned for the life saved.

"He is overyoung yet to marry, but when he is ready to take a wife, say in ten years or fifteen- Our daughter Maddalena will be seventeen in ten years, and Luisa will be eighteen in fifteen years. I will not broach it to him, not yet. He's too young-at twenty, he'll only think that it would be a decade or more before he could bed his wife. I might have a word with Ser Mario, though-the more so, because if Donna Ginevra bears him sons, Ezio will be dispossessed of Monteriggioni and the estates there. Ezio ought not suffer for it, and I will see to it he does not, should the need arise…It pleased me much that you claimed friendship of Donna Ginevra. With her recent sorrows, she wants for friendship and consolation."

"I liked her very much," Clarice said, truthfully. She was always truthful; that was one reason why she did not fit in well in Florentine society. Ginevra had been right; few people went out of their way on Clarice's account, and while Lorenzo was always being given things, the presents were sometimes appalling. (after Ezio had executed Francesco de Pazzi and emasculated the conspiracy, people had gone out in mobs to catch and dismember anyone with any connection to the conspirators, and then more often than not, sent a few body parts to Lorenzo as a show of support. For a few weeks, the street in front of the Palazzo Medici had looked and worse, smelled like a cannibal's open air meat market.) More usually they were chosen to impress Il Magnifico, meaning they were spectacular but useless. For example, a iridescent seashell that a goldsmith had turned into the body of a writhing sea monster, encrusted with gems and metal. Who could get pleasure from looking at such an ugly horror, especially when the seashell on its own was much more beautiful? In admiring the shell, one could admire the wonders of the world God made, and not the fervid imaginings of Man.

Therefore, a gift of soap and lotion, simple though it seemed at first glance, had impressed Clarice very favorably because not only had someone thought of her, but actually considered what she might need and enjoy. Nor had Ginevra disappointed Clarice once they met. Her bearing and manners had proclaimed her a lady, and when questioned about her origins, had admitted that while her father had been born a gentleman, he had married his landlady's daughter. Most women Clarice knew would have puffed up their backgrounds to seem of higher birth. Ginevra, on the other hand, even replied that made her "As common as gooseberries, madonna," when one of her waiting women raised the question. Such honesty was rare and admirable (Clarice did not get sarcasm or irony) and it was somehow easier to like someone who was of humble background when they weren't ashamed to admit it. And—although Clarice had been wrong before, Ginevra did not seem like the sort of person who listened carefully to everything someone said so they might titter over it afterward. She did not make cutting remarks (at least not to Clarice) or the sort of jokes which weren't funny.

"I hope Ser Mario will be good to her," Clarice continued, as much because she was hoping to keep Lorenzo's attention a little longer as anything else, "I think that even if her father lived, she could have hardly any dowry. He never settled down in one place long enough to build a practice. And Ser Mario is so much older, and looks so harsh."

"Mario Auditore? He's an excellent general and as shrewd a leader as you'll find anywhere. His men are loyal to him because he's loyal to them; they like him because he makes them feel part of his force, not just paid fighters. He didn't achieve that by being unduly harsh. According to Ezio, he treats the women of his family kindly, and I expect he'll do the same as a husband. I would say he's fond of her already. Nor will he have cause to reproach her for coming to him a pauper; I saw to that."

"I am glad," Clarice said. "I shall send her some fabric for a gown in the Florentine style, I think some cloth of silver and silk to match, in purple because she is in mourning. I know she lost her father but recently, yet a bride should not have to go around in nothing but black, it is too melancholy. How did he pass, do you know?"

"Yes, and it sorrows me. It is a very hard thing that her father should have been slaughtered on my account." Lorenzo shook his head.

"On your account?" Clarice stared.

"Yes. It was made to look like an attack by bandits, but as you said, he had very little to attract the attention of thieves. There are those who would not like to see me regain my accustomed health and resume a more active life. Had they known that due to his failing eyesight, Dottore Schiavoni schooled his daughter to the limits of her understanding that she might be able to prepare all his medicines , they would surely have hunted her down and slain her as well—eventually. It is by mere chance that she escaped their notice."

"Rather, I think, the grace of God preserved her," Clarice said, automatically. "My lord, should we not have a special Mass said, to thank Our Lord for sending us such friends as these, who have done us such good, and for your release from pain?"

It seemed he had forgotten her again, but no, he turned away from the window and gave her that smile which weakened her knees. "That is an excellent idea. Yes. We should indeed give thanks. What I'm wondering now is—what will we have to thank them, and Him, for next? One thing is certain, there will be something."

* * *

A/N: So, does everybody know about the AC: Legacy Facebook game? It fills in some details about the lives of some of the characters, including Bartolomeo D' Alvanio and Mario, who seems to have been in his youth exactly the way I have imagined him. It takes a little while to figure out, but I'm having fun with it.

What is not fun is that the PC release of Brotherhood is 'delayed indefinitely'. I'm mildly despondant.


	31. Still More Questions

So we all went back to Leonardo's workshop and spent the next hour fixing up a special parrot-proof area, improvised mainly from things he had on hand. For example, an old and unused oil lamp stand made a perfect perch once we wired a branch to it, and the lamps themselves became a water dish and food dish respectively. His old cage was far too small, so rather than force him back into it, we just put a drop cloth on the floor and tethered him to the perch with a beak-proof chain long enough to give him some freedom of movement without being so long as to let him crap on, break or bite anything of value. A length of knotted rope became a starter play toy, and it was done.

While we were having a rummage through all of Leo's accumulated treasures, Claudia got very, very quiet. As involved as I was, perhaps I should have paid more attention to her, but I didn't, which made for some awkwardness later. It wasn't because of her nascent crush on Leo, as I thought but something else entirely. While I was staying with Leo, he had done some nude studies of me (I mean, who wouldn't leap at the chance to model for Da Vinci?) and he was not the tidiest or most organized of people. Now, nothing but sketching had gone on, and none of the pictures showed my face. However—.

The night before, we'd had to make an unscheduled stop at a roadside inn and they only had two rooms. Since obviously Ezio and Claudia couldn't share a room, that meant she and I wound up together. After a long day riding sidesaddle in the summer sun, I wanted and needed to wash. The inn didn't have a bath per se, so I had to make do with a big basin and a couple of jugs of water. As sometimes happens, Claudia came back in the room at the wrong moment and saw me unclothed. Not a big deal for me, obviously, but she was embarrassed. Point being, when she came across the sketches, she put two and two together and came up with a larger sum than four. If she'd said anything about it right then, I think everything could have been settled then and there, but instead she let it stew.

Once we had all admired the set up, if not the way the parrot lifted his tail and added to the splotches on the drop cloth, Leonardo said, "I think I'm going to call him 'Salai'."

I nearly blew a circuit, because 'Salai' was, or was going to be, the nickname he gave to Gian Giacomo Caprotti di Oreno, the assistant/model/probably lover who would live with him for thirty years, stealing from him, blowing money on expensive clothes, causing trouble and producing second rate art. The name meant 'Dirty little one', a euphemism for the Devil. Concealing my reaction, all I said was, "'Salai'? Are you sure?"

"Not entirely. Perhaps he'll earn a different name." Leo stroked his chin.

'Salai' worked his way down his perch pole and waddled around on the floor, testing the limits of his chain. "Wicked, wicked, wicked," he said, happily.

"Or perhaps not," I conceded.

"Do you think he'll be able to fly once his wing feathers grow back out?" Ezio asked.

"Maybe," I replied. "It depends on whether he learned to fly before he was first clipped. His wing muscles might not have developed if he was clipped too young." I roomed with an ornithologist on the Congo for about fifty years, where this particular species came from, and I knew more than I ever wanted to about the birds of that region. Then Leo asked a question about wing span ratios and soon after that, Ezio and Claudia left, while we were discussing the tensile strength of the materials he'd constructed his flyer model from. I don't know why they would be bored, but to each their own.

At the time, I had no idea what was brewing in Claudia's head, and turned my attention instead to Leo's microscope. He really had advanced the design a lot in the past two weeks. "You put the lens inside the center of the tube and filled it with oil?" I asked.

"Why, yes. You see, I was having the greatest trouble with achieving clarity at higher magnification. Then I thought of how a drop of water can magnify the surface it's on, and since water evaporates rather quickly and leaves a film, not to mention that it might be difficult to tell the difference between what bacteria and microbes might be in the water and what might be in the sample, I thought of putting the lens in, filling the tube with clear oil and sealing it, thereby immersing the lens in oil. It works much better now—although I'm not sure why."

He had come up with the oil immersion lens all on his own without so much as a hint of help from me. "Leo, I have to say, the legend of you doesn't come close to the reality. You have leapfrogged nearly three hundred years of refinements and developments achieved through trial and error. That's it. I was holding off until now, but I don't care if the world isn't ready for it. _You_ are. I'm going to give you the secret of antigravity." I looked around for pen and paper.

"That's very kind of you, I'm sure, but I have no idea what that is," he said, looking so adorable I wanted to pinch his cheek. "Anti suggests that it is against something, and of course that something is gravity, but I have no idea what gravity is either, in this context."

"Ah. Right. You have to learn to walk before you can run, and you have to learn to run before you can fly. Gravity is the force which makes things fall down instead of up-." I explained gravity, the laws of physics, and threw in E=MC squared for good measure before I finished up with antigravity. "I'm sure you've heard of the Great Pyramids of Egypt. They were built with the help of antigravity. Fortunately, the Corpus Hermetica is full of quasi-Egyptian mysticism and you can claim you derived this from a successful interpretation of some passage or other. The most important thing is, you have to get the math absolutely right when you do it."

He was reading over what I had written down. "But this is so simple!" he gasped.

"Yes, it is." I agreed.

"And it completely eliminates the problem of weight if applied to any flying machine. A child could operate one, as long as the craft weighed little or nothing!"

"Ah,_ that's_ why you have to get the math right. You remember what happened to Icarus?" I gave him a level look.

"You mean that if it's too light, it'll fly too high and burn up?" he asked.

"Correct in principle but almost exactly the opposite," I told him. "Air, like everything else, is anchored to the Earth by gravity. So is the water in it, in the form of humidity and clouds, and it's the water that traps the warmth of the sun's rays, so the higher up you go, the colder and thinner the air gets. If you send up an unprotected person in an open flying machine and you calculate the weight wrong, you run the risk of suffocating them and freezing them solid at the same time. The speed or velocity with which they travel is also a factor. That is why the Egyptians confined the use of antigravity to things like stone."

"I understand. Still, if one deliberatly erred on the heavy side, lightening the weight of a craft but not running it into the negative-why, the possibilities are endless!"

"Indeed they are, and I'm not going to give you any suggestions because I know you'll do better on your own. Now, what was this unusual cell behavior you wanted to show me?"

What he wanted to show me was nothing more complicated than cell division, which I explained to him.

"That cell is dividing into two identical cells. The little dark squiggles are chromosomes, and they're unwinding themselves before they split. The process is called mitosis," I explained, "which is how multicelled organisms grow or repair themselves. Chromosomes are—think of them as a diagram in code of a living being. In this case, you." For this slide, he had used a scraping from the inside of his cheek.

"Amazing…" Leonardo reached for his latest notebook and began sketching what he saw. "But how does a unique life begin? I mean, children are not identical to their fathers, nor siblings to each other-usually."

"Leo, you are a very dear friend, but when it comes to explaining exactly how babies are made, I would much rather print out the information from my credenza and have you read it on your own. I think the possibilities for embarrassment are just too numerous. For example," I said, thinking of a particular drawing of his, of a copulating couple at the moment of conception—in cross section, no less—and the errors in it. "There is no special channel leading from a man's brain directly to his penis to provide the child's spirit. Nor is breast milk made of purified menstrual blood."

"Truly?" he asked, looking surprised. "But the best medical authorities-."

"Are very, very wrong. Believe me. I'll print it out for you, and you can even copy the information if you want, but you have to burn the print-out when you're done." I was wreaking enough havoc without committing deliberate anachronisms.

"Yes, thank you. Now, about this 'cell division'. If I understand you correctly, one cell divides and divides again until—until you have a full grown human being, or a parrot or a tree, but a body is made up of many different types of tissue. Not just the inner lining of a cheek, but bone and muscle and bile—and if all cells divide like this, when and where and what tells it to stop so we aren't all giants? Or immortal?"

I did my best to answer, but he still had more questions, so finally I said, "Look, think of it this way.

"Imagine a giant scriptorium full of scribes, paper, quills and ink at the ready, waiting for a manuscript to copy. The first cell is that original manuscript. It hasn't been edited—there will be imperfections, some of which might be fatal, but the first scribe starts copying it, passes the copy on to the next, and they both copy it, passing the copies on to two other scribes, who copy it and pass them on to others—at first they all copy the entire text, but after a while, individual scribes get together and specialize, copying one chapter or one illustration, becoming bones or muscle or the liver or the brain.

"After nine months, the landlady evicts the lot of them—but they're not daunted by that. It's spring, the weather is fine, and they are determined to keep at it. If there isn't a killing frost, or disease to prevent them, that is—. At first, they are all excited and energetic, but over time, and as the weather changes, the outermost scribes start making errors. They haven't access to the original manuscript, you see, and it may be getting worn and smudged with use, too. The errors one scribe makes will be copied by the next, who might add his own—until at last the text is unintelligible, the materials used up, and the scribes worn out." There was something I had been thinking of almost obsessively, something I had to ask him.

Leonardo shuddered. "That's very-,"

I continued. "It might not be fair of me to ask this now, when I've just set the cold breath of Mortality huffing down your neck, but-Leonardo, my friend Leo-will you let me give you another century or two of life? Not worn out, hanging-on-in old-age-life, but two more centuries of productive prime?"

_Yes!,_ he wanted to cry out, I could see that, but he stopped himself and asked instead, "How?"

TBC….

A/N: Leonardo did indeed do some naughty drawings including the one I cite here. Antigravity is one of those things one should not try at home, so I omitted the relevant parts. (lol) And not only was the part about people sending Lorenzo body parts from last chapter true, when the weather turned bad, people decided it was because God was angry that Francesco de Pazzi was buried in consecrated ground, so he was disinterred and buried in unblessed earth. After which some kids dug him up again, tied a rope around his corpse, and dragged it all over town before he got to stinking so bad they had no choice but to toss him in the Arno and let nature take its course. I've been reading a biography on Lorenzo called Magnifico by Miles Unger. Great stuff.


	32. The Downside of Longevity

Date: 04/11/2354

From: Forzare

To: Labienus

Dear Sir; I represent the interests of a consortium which wishes to acquire the services of a particular cyborg unit, designated Art Preservation Technician Seventh Grade, Ginevra, along with one working credenza field unit, standard issue. What they particularly wish to avoid are inconvenient questions, and for certain reasons, they do not wish to transact with Dr. Zeus directly. Delivery of said cyborg and credenza would be to a place/time of their choosing, term of service to be indefinite while she remains of use. Please name the compensation requisite to achieving this goal.

Sincerely,

Forzare

* * *

Date: 04/11/2354

From: Labienus

To: Forzare

I don't know who is responsible for this, nor do I care. If this is intended as a jest, I find it unamusing. If it's an attempt to entrap me, let me remind you I am thirty thousand years too old to fall for such an obvious ploy.

Labienus

* * *

"In my credenza, I have materials to repair myself if I'm more than just hurt. There are things which can damage chromosomes- certain substances, chemicals, sunlight even, if you get too much of it-and in normal people these cause cancers and tumors, if they survive the initial exposure. Someone like me wouldn't develop such abnormalities, but if the damage is bad enough, much worse than lethal for a mortal-. Well, they issue repair kits for those of us in the field who may encounter such conditions.

"The kits come in two parts, a chromosome repair kit and a tube of unpurposed biomechanical nanobots. I know, I know, more incomprehensible gibberish. Think of the biomechanicals as a printing press that can make endless copies of the manuscript without any changes, generate its own ink and paper, even maintain and repair itself. But to do that, it needs the best possible version of the manuscript or the errors will also be duplicated endlessly.

"The chromosome repair kit acts as an editor who reads several hundred different versions of the manuscript before putting together as correct and clean a copy as possible. It can even fix some errors in the original, if necessary, and if there are gaps, it fills in with what it thinks should go there. The more errors there are, the more work the editor has to do, and the more guesses it has to make, the more chance it has to get things wrong. The younger the person is, the better. Fortunately, Dr. Zeus is generous when putting a set together. One set to fix one of us once has enough to extend the life of an adult such as yourself. The two parts have to be administered at almost the same time, because once the seal is broken the kits are only good for a few hours. The trouble is, the older a person gets, the less well it works-and I only have three. If the chromosome repair kit has to fill in too much, the chances of something going wrong, fatally wrong, increase."

"Fatally wrong?" his voice rose almost to a squeak.

"That's why I don't want you to answer right away. Yes. The best case scenario would be a fatal allergic reaction, a wholesale rejection resulting in sudden death. The worst would be a long, painful and drawn out death from cancer."

"I see." He was silent a long moment, his face a study in thoughtfulness. "Ginevra, how much longer do I have? You must know. I _know_ that you know when and where and how, as you know so much else."

"Leo, I don't want—." No, he had the right to ask. "You will live to be sixty-seven."

"I'm twenty-eight now," he said. "Thirty-nine more years. That's longer than a lot of people get, I suppose—but in comparison to two hundred and sixty-seven, it doesn't seem like a lot. What happens when the two hundred years are up? How would I die—if it's successful, that is?"

"Provided you don't suffer any fatal accidents or get murdered-disease won't trouble you any more, so you won't have to worry about just getting sick-then some time when you go to sleep, your body will forget to breathe during the night. It's a very peaceful way to go, or so I understand. I don't have the components to augment your memory and prevent that-but with two hundred more years to work with, you might be able to develop them."

"But-this is not a criticism, I'm only asking becuase I want to understand-you'll have two hundred years to work with, too. Couldn't you develop them yourself?" he asked.

"No. I'm not creative. We're not made to be creative. We can duplicate, preserve, and record-but not create."

"But the other week, when we were painting together, you did very good work. And it was your suggestion which made finishing it possible." He looked at me with concern and sympathy.

"But not inspired work. I was imitating your style when I painted-I can copy you so exactly that even you would have trouble telling our work apart, and the contrajuxposition of dark and light as used for that painting will be a highlight of the Mannerism style. The technique will be called chiaroscuro."

"Oh. It can't be possible that you have no creativity in you. Perhaps you haven't discovered what it is yet," he offered. "What I would like to ask, however—and I hope you'll understand I'm not questioning you. I am greatly ignorant when it comes to these matters—why can't you make more of these substances using your credenza?"

"I probably can't. It won't make them from scratch—I tried already—and the only way to find out if it can duplicate them would be to break open a set and try. The problem is, if it failed, there would be one set wasted, and I have too few of them as it is. Anyway, I would have no way of preserving them. If it comes to it," I said, bitterly, "there would be no difficulties at all if I could only reprogram nanobots with my credenza. I'm teeming with the things, but they're all programmed with my chromosomes."

"I see," he said, although I could tell he didn't. "Ginevra, this is an awkward and unworthy question, given the incredible gift you are offering, but I must know—what do you want in return?"

"I don't want your immortal soul, if that's what you're asking," I gave him a smile. "Nor do I want money or even any of your artworks—although that would be nice. I don't even ask that you stay my friend. All I want is that you should work at bringing, if not immortality, than at least that same longevity, to others."

"Certainly I can do that," he replied. "But—do you know what you could sell these for, what some people would pay for two more centuries of life?"

"I can imagine," I said, "but remember, it's not a guarantee, only the potential. There are drawbacks even were it to work flawlessly. It's important not to arouse suspicion because you don't seem to grow older. You'd have to 'age' yourself with make-up and hair dye—I can show you how. I could even give you an eye that looks as dead as Ser Mario's, except you would still be able to see with it."

"How could you do that?" Leo asked.

"You know that white membrane you find inside an eggshell once you've cracked it? If you cut that out with a very fine, sharp, sterile blade and cut a hole for the pupil, you can place it on the surface of an eye without harming it in the least. It looks very real and lasts for a day, with care. Then if you paint your face with the egg white and dust it with a little fine-ground ash, you get very natural looking wrinkles."

"I never would have thought of that—interesting. Are you perhaps thinking Ser Mario might have to do that? If these repair kits work for us as they do for you, his sight would return, wouldn't it?"

"Most likely it would," I agreed, "if I offer one to him." I drew a long breath, trying not to sound odd as I drew it. "Offering this to you, that was the easy choice, because of what you have to offer to the world, because you stand the best chance of being able to duplicate a kit—in time. With only three sets, I have to be sure I make the best choices for the greater good."

"But from how you've spoken of him, I would have sworn you love him," Leonardo said. Oh, gods, he was so young, so very young! To believe so in love!

"And so I do," I agreed, "but you forget that I am over nine hundred years old, and I have fallen in love more times than the number of years you've lived, and every time it was special, and every time, it was unique and true and intense, and every time, my heart sang, 'This is the end of loneliness',-and even when I fell in love with another immortal and there was the chance that it might last forever—well, the longest it ever lasted was fifty years, by which time there was nothing left of that passion but cold, cold ashes. I do not trust my heart, I have good reason not to. After three hundred years of emotional permafrost, it is no wonder—."

My voice, which had started off very level and even, had turned traitor on me, growing high and tight and thin. "It isn't just that he's good to me. Men can act any part when they want to get under your skirts. Or that he's good to the rest of the family. There are a dozen or so former mercenaries around Monteriggioni who are disabled to some degree and can't fight anymore. He finds jobs for them. Useful jobs, not just stupid make-work, whatever they're suited to. Some of his men have turned down offers of more money or higher rank with other companies because they know they can trust him. He doesn't brag about it. He doesn't have to, because I overheard people in the marketplace in town. And I can't even be honest with him about my real age or my past love-life."

"Three hundred years?" he asked. "Really?"

"Yes." I looked around the room, at all the fascinating clutter and at the parrot, who was testing a grape to see if he liked it. "For three hundred years, I have lived as chaste a life as any cloistered virgin. More so, for they have something to suppress. My emotional dilemma is another difficult facet of such a long life—the inevitable death of love, whether it be the person or the emotion. Friendships, I can speak from experience, last longer. People who are just friends can stay friends for centuries"

"Speaking as a man," Leonardo said thoughtfully, "I would find the idea that someone went three hundred years only to succumb to my irresistible attractions flattering. You might keep that in mind, should the subject arise."

"Thank you," I replied.

"I'm glad you're not pressing me for an immediate answer," he went on, "because I don't have one. You speak of what I have to offer to the world. What if all I do is leave hundreds more unfinished projects? Maybe giving this gift to someone like your husband would be the greater good. What does history say of him?"

"Nothing at all. Not a word about any of the Auditore, in fact. I already knew this was not the world of my birth, not quite. For one thing, all the contemporary accounts of Francesco de Pazzi where I come from say he was quite a small man with very blond hair, and here they say he was well-built and had long dark hair, among other differences."

"I wonder what significance that has?" Leo asked.

"I don't know," I said, "but I believe Claudia and Ezio are going to come collect me soon. Will you not join us for dinner?"

"Thank you, but no. I believe I will start talking to my new friend here." He levered himself up and went over to the parrot stand, where he took a nut out of the food dish and held it out. "This is an almond. Can you say 'Almond'?"

"Should he regurgitate chewed-up food in your ear, it's a compliment," I informed him. "It means he's trying to feed you; he just doesn't know which orifice is the mouth on a human."

Leo drew back hastily, but I knew something he didn't. That parrot wasn't going anywhere. Like Mario, Leonardo's heart was too large and too warm to throw out one who was in need.


	33. Growing Pains or: Claudia Under Pressure

"—So as we're taking our leave of him, Leonardo said, 'Oh, I knew there was something I forgot to mention. On Monday, I'm leaving for Venice.' He's been commissioned to do some portraits. Since business would take me there anyway, I suggested we travel together. He's rented a caretta and a pair of horses, but being Leonardo, he gave no thought to hiring guards. So it's as well that I'm accompanying him." Ezio said as he passed the bread.

"Too right," agreed Mario, "There are parts of the Romagna where travelers disappear, horses and all." Lifting the lid of the soup tureen, he sniffed appreciatively. "Riboletta! Simple fare, but that's often the best. Pass me your bowls…Not that the drive through the Apennines will be much safer. " He handed Claudia a full bowl of steaming soup.

"Thank you, Uncle," she said automatically, wishing they were eating in the common room and not privately in their suite. If they were downstairs, she would have to hold her tongue about what she'd seen at Leonardo's workshop. Claudia cast a glance at Ginevra, wondering how someone so guilty could act so naturally, as though she had not left her lover only a half-an-hour before. Perhaps she was so hardened that nothing bothered her. Or perhaps she had nothing to be guilty about…

But no, that could not be. Claudia had seen the proof of it with her own eyes, those drawings of a shamefully sensuous nude woman, opulent ( and not to mention unique) in proportions. Leonardo could not possibly know two young women with figures that were exactly alike. Yet again, when Claudia and Ezio had returned, she had inspected Ginevra closely, looking for any signs of a tryst—crumpled skirts, poorly tied laces, disarranged hair or a veil gone askew—and seen nothing. Ginevra was as sleek as an otter and neat as a pin.

"Oh, and a package came for you, Micina," Uncle Mario pointed with his spoon. "You didn't waste any time, did you?"

"But I didn't buy anything today," Ginevra frowned over at the parcel. "Excuse me for a moment." Getting up, she went over to investigate. "Oh, it's from Donna Clarice. Here's a note—. In addition to all the usual, she says, 'People can be most cruel over the things that matter least, such as the cut or fabric of a gown, especially when one is a stranger. I send you this in the hope of sparing you that pain. Well, this is unexpected."

She undid the parcel . "It's fabric, a length of silver brocade and one of plain silk." Turning to them, she draped a fold of each over her shoulders. "And it's out of proportion in value to what I gave her. Poor girl, I thought she must be lonely ."

"What would you call that color? Violet?" Mario asked. "It suits you."

"Thank you. I'll send her a note tomorrow, but I don't know how I could match this."

"Maybe it's got back to her how you defended her today," Ezio offered. To his uncle, he explained, "We met a friend of Claudia's, who was out to sharpen her claws on someone, but after crossing Ginevra, she came near to picking up her skirts and running away. Not before she invited our ladies to her home two days hence. Is that why you're so quiet tonight, baby sister? You don't have to go."

"It isn't that. I'm tired, that's all." Claudia lied. She had actually been quite impressed by the way Ginevra handled Ariana. It was as if she had come out and said directly: _You may think you are clever and witty, but I am wittier and more clever. And if you plan to attack, you had best be prepared to defend. _The encounter had also reminded Claudia why she had not been completely crushed by the move to Monteriggioni, despite her complaints. The truth was, she did not like her friends very much.

It had also set her to thinking. Every time she began to like Ginevra, however begrudgingly, something always seemed to ruin that liking. However, when it came right down to it, what ruined the liking was Claudia herself, and that was a bitter dose to swallow. Looked at as someone unconnected to her, Ginevra was often outrageously frank, usually interfering, and definitely absurdly overeducated , not to mention bossy, and she encouraged Uncle Mario to behave in undignified and inappropriate ways, but she was also very funny and compassionate. She had a gift for explaining things without making someone feel stupid, and when she liked someone, she would stick up for them even when they weren't there—all excellent qualities to have in a friend.

Claudia had just about made up her mind it was time to let the animosity go. After all, even if Ginevra suddenly dropped off the face of the earth, things weren't going to go back to being the way they were, so it was time to grow up. She surprised herself by how good that thought made her feel, how free and light.

Then she found the drawings, and now she felt a little sick. Claudia realized that Ginevra, as the only person who could make Il Magnifico's gout medicine, had just become rather important. Not the kind of errant wife who could be locked away in the country or sent to a convent or even killed, in otherwords, so an accusation of adultery, even if true, would have severe consequences. What was the right thing to do? Tell Uncle Mario? Tell Ezio? Talk to Ginevra directly? Say nothing at all?

The problem with saying nothing was that you had to keep on saying nothing, every minute of every hour, and that kind of pressure built up fast and strong.

She got through dinner without really tasting it. Afterward, Ezio excused himself, telling them not to wait up for him. Being male, of course he could get away with that. It left Claudia in a very awkward position, though. To tell or not to tell?

That was the question.

Maybe—maybe whatever had happened between Leonardo and Ginevra was all over. It had happened before Ginevra had ever come to Monteriggioni and met Uncle Mario. If that was so—well, it might be past history, but not nearly past enough. But Leonardo was leaving for Venice soon, putting them out of one another's reach. If Ginevra didn't see him alone during that time—that would be enough, wouldn't it?

The inn's servant had come and gone, leaving behind a dish of sweets for dessert, which they were passing around.

"Now, " Uncle Mario asked jovially, "what's the plans for tomorrow? I have some good news for you, Claudia. You remember Annetta, who used to work for your family? She still lives in Firenze, and she's looking for a new place, so I've offered her one. She can make the rounds of the shops with you."

"Yes, I remember her," Claudia said, "but she's also got this sister who—She was very kind to us when we were in trouble, but she _is_ a fallen woman."

"Fallen? You mean she's hurt her knees? Broken a leg?" Ginevra asked. "Yes, I'm joking. I know what you mean; it's just the way you said it. I couldn't despise a woman for falling; the difference between you and her may be no more than a slight stumble."

"And you would know, wouldn't you?" Claudia flashed out, and then the fat was in the fire.

TBC….

* * *

A/N: So I did it. I broke down and bought a PS3. I will have my Brotherhood on the day of release!

I know I've said it before, but reviews are always very much appreciated.


	34. Not Assassin Material

Claudia's words hung in the air like an extremely foul fart, one too bad to ignore.

I broke the silence by saying, "The reason I said that is because owing to the vagaries of travel, I arrived in Firenze a day early, so of course Ezio wasn't there to meet me. I knew no one here, I had nowhere to go, very little money, and no way of getting in touch with any other Assassin. I was frightened and alone, a stranger to everyone; it seemed to me as if I was abandoned. I thought, for a while, that I might wind up forced to become a puttana simply to survive. Hunger, homelessness and poverty make the prospect of a life of sin a lot less unattractive—as opposed to no life at all. To my good fortune, though, Ezio was there the next day, and I cannot express how relieved I was.

"My point is that one never knows what one is capable of, until one is desperate enough."

"That isn't what I'm talking about!" Claudia lashed back, slamming her hand down against the table, making the candies jump in their dish. Wow, she really was stressed—blood pressure up, brain activity seething. "She has a lover!" she flung at Mario.

"What?" I spluttered, genuinely flummoxed. "I do not!" If she had said I had _had_ lovers, in the past tense, of course I couldn't deny it, (although how the virginal Claudia could have known was beyond me!) but that wasn't what she was accusing me of.

"Don't lie!" She was getting louder; I scanned the immediate vicinity, hoping nobody was near enough to hear. Good: we were the only ones on this floor. "I saw the proof with my own eyes. Ezio's friend Leonardo, _he'_s the one. I saw drawings he made of her," she explained to her uncle, "as—as only her husband should see her."

"Oh, _those_," I said, enlightened. "Yes, I posed for him nude, partly because I can't stand all those 'female' nudes with muscular male torsos that have a couple of soggy apple dumplings glued on in only approximately the right places, but mostly because he is one of the greatest artists of this or, in my opinion, any age. It was an honor. But all that went on was some sketching. No touching. And," I added, wondering why Mario was looking so composed in the face of all of this, "he did not put my face on any of them. Nor did he depict me doing anything…untoward. It was for the sake of art."

"They were indecent all the same!" Claudia shot back.

"They were in the style of classical antiquity," I defended both myself and Leonardo, "and to him, I was no more than a form to be sketched, like a marble statue."

Mario's quietly powerful voice undercut our squabble. "I knew about the sketches." That silenced both of us.

"How—oh. Ezio must have seen them and told you. That _is_ embarrassing." I frowned.

My—for lack of a better word—husband (a concept I was still adjusting to) nodded. "If this is the kind of trouble they're going to cause, I shall have to see how much he wants for them. No, I know that Leonardo isn't a threat to any man's marriage. Any woman's marriage—well, that's another story."

Now Claudia frowned. "I don't understand."

"It's called the Florentine vice," Mario said, "and it's one of the reasons I don't like to live here. Da Vinci's not a bad sort, for all of that, or so I'm given to understand. Knows better than to press his attentions where they're not asked for." Hmm. Homophobia? While technically homosexuality was a capital crime in Firenze, the laws against it were rarely enforced, and Firenze was in fact kind of like the San Francisco, California of its day and age.

This was not a good time to speak up for Leonardo's right to love or just screw whoever he wanted to.

Mario continued. "That's not important. What is—first of all, I happen to know for a fact that Ginevra is innocent of this _for another reason_."

As innocent as Claudia was, and as new as that aspect of our relationship (that is, Mario's and mine,) was—owing to the sleeping arrangements the night before, we had only spent one night together—she clearly hadn't realized that he and I had started sleeping together until that moment. "Oh. Oh!" She flushed bright red.

"Second, and ,to my mind, much more serious, is how you dismissed the help of a woman, who, whatever her profession, was more than just kind to you when you, your brother and your mother were in danger of your lives. She opened her home to you when every man's hand in this city was turned against you, and protected you when she might have turned you in for the price on your heads. So Paola is a courtesan! What of it? Do you think that killing is a nobler or cleaner profession?"

She opened her mouth, redder than ever, but he cut her off. "No. You will hear me out, or tomorrow I will send you packing back to Monteriggioni. Paola did more than house you and your mother. She gave to Ezio, freely and generously, the benefit of her wisdom and experience. Not in the bedchamber, but on the streets, teaching him how to walk among the throngs unnoticed and how to pick pockets. Your brother would not have survived were it not for her. And you brush off her aid, and she herself, with the words, 'She was very kind to us when we were in trouble, but she _is_ a fallen woman.' Would that you could fall so high!

"Now, the other day you said, niece, that you wanted to take a more active role in what we do as Assassins, and I said 'We'll see.'" I had not heard about this, but it wasn't surprising.

Mario leveled a finger at her. "Well, I have seen, and nothing I have seen tells me that you are Assassin material. For days you've been full of nothing but sour remarks and complaints—complaints about the road, your horse, the lumpy beds at the inn last night, and the bad food—. What sort of life do you think that an Assassin lives on the road? Do you think Ezio even sleeps in a bed most nights, or always eats rare bistecca with truffle sauce for his dinner? He lies in wait in the wet and cold for hours, or stuck up a tree or on a roof waiting for a target. He has to make himself pleasant to people on all levels of life, whether he likes them or not, to charm information out of them.

"Finally, female Assassins do not often come of Assassin families, because it is a hard life, one that we men would not want to see our daughters, sisters, nieces to take up, and risk rape, torture, and murder most days. It takes determination and toughness; women who are suited to it more often come from the ranks of courtesans and thieves, and keep on in their old professions because they offer access to places, people and information which ladies do not enjoy. I can't train you up exactly as I did Ezio because you are a woman, and women do not bulk up with muscle as men do. You would need specialized training. What if I were to send you to a Courtesan-Assassin? Could you train with her, respect her, follow her orders—or would it be beneath you because she is a fallen woman?"

Ah. I had a revelation. Mario had come back from his meeting with his business associates with a trace, a mere trace, of a heavy, heady perfume on his sleeve, as if the wearer had brushed against him. Civet musk, attar of roses, and clove—expensive ingredients. He was acquainted with Paola the courtesan, and had great respect for her. Conclusion drawn: Paola was an Assassin.

"I didn't know," Claudia mumbled.

"But now you do. Niece, while we remain in this city, I want you to consider your future carefully. Decide what you want of it. If all your ambition amounts to is marriage and birthing one bambino after another—so be it. I'll ask Lorenzo about a suitable bridegroom. But you will marry out of the Auditore and out of the Assassins. If you choose to remain as support, there are men who will gladly seek a connection with us. If you choose to train as an Assassin—you must leave off the principessa ways. Capisce?"

Claudia didn't speak for a long moment, and when she did, her voice was choked with tears. "Yes." Getting to her feet, she rushed out into the hall, heading for her own room.

Mario sighed. "It was coming to this sooner or later."

"I fear I brought it on rather sooner," I reached across the table to touch his hand, and smiled at him. "Yet somehow I think that even if she married out of the Assassins—should her new husband treat her poorly, that unwise gentleman would suffer an unfortunate and fatal accident at a time when you and Ezio were somewhere far away with plenty of witnesses to swear to it."

"Very likely," Mario smiled back, a little sadly. "In some ways, I think it must have been easier in the old days, before Altair's reforms. Children were raised together, not by their own parents, and brought up to be of use as they were best suited to the Order. There wasn't all this worry about them."

"It sounds rather like my own upbringing," I reminisced, "in Dr. Zeus' crèche. Very impersonal. There was not one of us who would not rather have had a family—both to grow up in one, and to have one of our own. Which I have not had, until now." My eyes were suddenly stinging a little. "There are these circuits they put on our heads, when we're recovering in the regeneration tanks, to give us happy dreams while we heal, else we should go mad. Sometimes I wonder whether in a moment some medical technician will come in and haul me out, and all this prove no more than a dream."

"Oh, Micina," Mario said, "With all the shouting and peevishness? I would not call this a dream."

"If it were too perfect, we wouldn't be able to believe in it," I told him. "—I'm going to go talk to Claudia. Don't worry. There will be no more shouting—at least I hope not."

"If anyone complains, I'll buy them a bottle of wine," he promised.

* * *

Some of Michaelangelo's 'female' nudes are very...odd. As described here. It was rather common for men in Renaissance Florence (pre-Savonarola) to live like certain Republican senators-which is, they self-identified as heterosexual, had wives and families, but went out to meet young men on the downlow. A lot. And in Venice there was the Ponte Delle Tette where _by civic law_, courtesans had to stand stripped to the waist at night to lure young men back to heterosexuality. No lie. Wonder why that didn't make it into the game...

History is much more interesting than most people think. And much stranger.

A/N: Remember the strange well at Monteriggioni? The one that was opened on the day Ginevra and Ezio arrived there, in this fic? While playing Project Legacy on Facebook, Mario's memories reveal why it's a huge cavern—spoilers here—.

There's a piece of Eden hidden in it, the Shroud, which was in life Christ's robe. It has healing properties, but with a price—overuse is deadly. Anyhow, in retrieving it, Mario loses his eye. Since the well was opened for the first time in generations on that day in this fic, that means the Shroud is still down there! As for Mario's eye—well, I guess he was just fated to lose it.


	35. Reconciliation, At Last

I knocked on the door. "Claudia, may I come in?"

"I don't care," was her reply, so I went in. She was lying face down on her bed, her face pillowed on her arm. I sat down next to her.

"He didn't even tell me he was watching me to see if I'd make a good Assassin," she mumbled into her arm. "Or what I had to do to prove myself."

"Perhaps that was the point." I said, reasonably.

"Maybe I should just get married. I don't seem to be fit for anything else." My, this was certainly a good wallow in self-pity on Claudia's part. Well, don't we all need to wallow now and then? And she'd just been humiliated. "But if he won't talk to me anymore if I do, or let Ezio…"

"Your uncle wouldn't abandon you even if you took him up on the offer of finding you a husband, any husband," I told her. "If you weren't safe and reasonably content, he would do something, provided Ezio didn't get there first. I even think if you tried hard to prove you had the fortitude and endurance of an Assassin, he might reconsider."

Her head lifted up and she glared at me. "I just accused you of adultery," she half-snarled, half-groaned. "Why aren't you screaming at me? Or at least being nasty? Why are you being nice?"

"Maybe because I know you'll suffer more this way," I said, and smiled at her. Nicely, of course.

She put her head back down. "Hrmmmph," was her reply.

"I don't blame you for jumping to the obvious conclusion," I said, "If there had been anything more than friendship going on between Leo and me, I would never have left Firenze in the first place. In a lot of ways, he and I are very compatible. Just not in the ways that would make a marriage work.

"Here and now, among the upper classes, most marriages are just contracts where a woman agrees to bear one man's children exclusively and he agrees to stick around and provide for them, with a certain amount of housekeeping thrown in, but that isn't my idea of marriage, and from what I understand, it wasn't your parents' idea of it either. I think your uncle would rather that you had the chance to make a real marriage and didn't settle for a mere contract. You saw one of those for yourself today—Lorenzo and Clarice—and you can see how well that works out."

Claudia sat up suddenly. "Can I ask you a question? What exactly is the Florentine Vice? I still don't understand."

"Ummm—I can answer that, but only if we cry friends first. "

"Why?" she asked.

"Because my explanation would, if repeated to the wrong people, get me excommunicated and possibly burned at the stake."

"It's that bad?" Her brow creased.

"Maybe not quite, but the penance would be terrible for both of us. Friends?" I extended my hand.

"I wanted to give up hating you anyway," she said. "It was getting boring, and I didn't like myself for it."

That last statement pretty much summed up why I had gone through three centuries of celibacy in so many words, but I could hardly share that thought with her.

"Friends, then," she said, shaking hands.

"All right." I took a deep breath. "First of all, what I am about to tell you is a combination of what I've read, what I've observed, my own opinions, and a touch of actual personal experience. Um, you do know how babies are made, more or less, don't you?"

"Yes," she replied. "I _have_ lived in the country for nearly four years, and between harvest festivals and farm animals, I figured it out."

"Good, that saves a long explanation right there. I'm sure you 've also read poetry that goes on and on about the joys of love without mentioning that those same joys and making babies are related. They are. There are emotional joys to love, but mainly what the poets are talking about is the physical. The reason why there should be physical pleasure involved is easy—if there weren't, who would want to do something as messy, sweaty and ludicrous as the act itself is, when the end result, nine months later, is a squirming, squalling incontinent thing that has to be cared for continually for years and spits up on you?"

I know how to deliver laughs, and I was putting everything I had into this. Claudia looked deeply shocked but also like she was about to giggle.

"So Nature makes it fun and gives us these urges so the human race doesn't die out. Mind you, like so many things, it isn't fair. The pleasure is more certain for men, especially when they're young, and they don't have the bothers of carrying the results and birthing them. However, humans have a way of outsmarting Nature. People soon figured out ways to have the pleasure without necessarily also having a baby, and then they also worked out that it was also almost as much fun doing so alone and that, if baby-making were not the whole point, that a person of the same gender could be just as good. Or for some people, better. And when that happens between men, it's called the Florentine Vice. It's also called a number of other things which are not nearly as nice. Before you ask, because I know you're going to, as far as I can tell, Ezio does _not_ indulge in it. I'm not even sure he's all that aware of it."

Now Claudia had covered her mouth with both hands, and her shoulders were shaking. "Oh, I shouldn't be laughing like this," she said, "because I know you're talking about mortal sins. How can you say things like that?"

"It could be worse. I could be talking about immortal sins, which are quite different and a great deal worse. " I said flippantly. "But, to be serious, which I rarely am which I fear is a slight flaw in my character, the truth of it is," I left off the comedy, and said what I ought to have weeks before. "You remember what I said the first night, about how the story which the world must believe about me was the cover for things that can't be spoken of? I know Ezio told you something about that."

"Oh," she said, the corners of her mouth turning down. "Yes. It's—I haven't thought about it. The story seems so real."

"That's what it should do. Dr. Zeus—wasn't… I wasn't brought up like you were," I said, "I learned about religion, but as something to study, not something to believe in. I…never had a family before, just people who lived under the same roof. A few weeks ago, it seemed to me that I would be little better than a drudge for Dr. Zeus forever, and then I was delivered. To here, where the first person I met was Ezio and the second was Leonardo and the next thing I was riding into Monteriggioni, and whoops! Now I'm betrothed to a man who has the most generous spirit of anyone I've ever known, and I have a place in a real home, your home. There was your mother, and helping her—by being of use, I can feel like I've earned a place at your hearth, that I deserve this happiness. And then I went and made a wretched mess of it with you in the first half hour, and I haven't fixed it since."

"You came close to it when you sent Ariana off like that. Even then, I was thinking, 'Which of these people would I rather have for a friend?" and the answer was you." Claudia looked at her hands. "I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." I told her.

"Thank you." She looked over at me. "So—you truly care for Uncle Mario?"

"I do," I replied, and damn it all, why had I been so much of a watering can lately? My eyes were getting wet again. "I know he's your _ancient_ uncle, and you can't see him as—the object of someone's affections, but to me—from the start, when we laughed together, I liked him. I liked him so much, and everything I have learned about him since then, his sense of humor—his sense of honor—Well, if I get started in on all his good qualities, I'll be talking all night. While he lives—and that will be as long as…as long as I can, with whatever medicines I have, can extend his years, I am his good and faithful wife." I am always either doing the right thing for the wrong reasons or the wrong thing for the right reasons. Why should this be any different?

"And I am going to go back out to him," I continued, "before he starts to fear one of us has killed the other, which might enhance your chances of becoming an Assassin, but really, do we want to put the innkeeper's people to the trouble of cleaning up the mess?"

She laughed. "Good night—Aunt Ginevra."

* * *

A/N: Two days. Two freaking days until Brotherhood…

The next chapter will be a scene between Ginevra and Mario which will reveal a great deal about where the story will be going, and the chapter after will see Ezio and Leonardo off to Venice. More feedback would be greatly appreciated. How can I tell if you like how things are going if you don't tell me?


	36. It Seemed Like A Good Idea

Mario was studying something when I returned, frowning at the paper. He looked up at my approach, and asked, "Everything all right now?"

"I have hopes that it will be," I replied.

He heaved a sigh, looking, for a moment, twenty years older. "Ever since the day she set foot across my doorstep, she's been ten times the worry Ezio has. Keeping her safe, keeping her out of trouble and occupied—I don't know how the fathers of daughters can stand it. I was within an inch of sending her off to a convent from the start."

I made a sympathetic noise, "Tell me, were you truly considering her as a potential Assassin?"

"One of the first battles I was ever in," he said by way of reply, "I saw—There was this farm where a couple of nights before, our troops stopped to water their horses. The daughter of the house, a girl no more than thirteen, just starting to fill out, you know? She brought me bread and cheese with some salad herbs, and a mug of ale. We went back a few days later, after the fighting had gone through, and the whole family was—gone. She was lying on the ground, staring up at a sky she couldn't see. Her throat was slit, her skirts hiked up and her thighs—bloodied, bruised. She'd had a baby brother, and his arm was sticking out from under her. Someone had dashed his brains in. To train my niece and send her out—I could not do it. I could not."

"While a little learning may be a dangerous thing, but it isn't half as dangerous as complete ignorance." I said, "Could you not teach her how to defend herself, both with arms and without? As I recall, among the warlords of Japan, they train their ladies in the use of a light halberd which they call a naginata from a very early age. The ladies must defend the keep while their lords are away, and the naginata, being long enough to keep their opponents at a distance, makes up for the weight and strength they lack."

"There might be something in that," Mario admitted, "I don't suppose you've a teaching manual for it, do you?"

"Not in my head," I said, "but if such a thing exists, it will be in my credenza along with everything else."

"Da vero?" He raised his eyebrows. "Would there happen to be anything about the Temple of Jove Vesuvio in there? It would have been near Monte Vesuvio—well, you could tell as much from the name—maybe near these towns that were called 'Pompeii' and 'Herculaneum'."

"That's quite a coincidence," I crossed the room, picked up my credenza, and brought it to the table, "because I was looking for some information on those two cities just the other day."

"Were you, now?" He sat up, looking sharply interested. "What was that?"

"It was part of my hunt for a mold to make antibiotics from," I explained.

"Oh," he relaxed a little. "Did you find it?"

"Nothing specific enough," I grimaced. "The location of every fresco, every mosaic, every statue, skeleton, treasure trove and building—including the Temple of Jove Vesuvio you're looking for— is mapped out in detail, but not the locations of the food stores where they found an important fungus. I was vainly hoping for an easy place to dig. No such good fortune has come my way." I had wrestled with my conscience over the ethics of destroying an important historical site or going without antibiotics, and the antibiotics won. Art is important, but art is made by people and people must come first.

While I spoke, I brought up the map of the Vesuvian region, projecting it onto the tabletop. "There's your Jove Vesuvio." The sensors read my eye movements, centered in on the temple in question, highlighted it and enlarged it. "This is what it looked like before the eruption buried it—the pictures were taken by an agent of Dr. Zeus's, someone like me."

Mario swore under his breath. "Porco dio—What does it look like now?"

"If it were accessible today, it would look something like this." I superimposed the holo images taken from the twenty-second century dig over the first century original. "However, you'd have to dig down through a lot of topsoil, ash, pumice, and hardened mud to get to it. Why?"

Instead of answering me with words, he grabbed me and kissed me. "Micina," he said when we came up for air, "you make me want to believe in God. Partly to have someone to thank, and partly because at times I swear someone must have sent you."

"Thank you, but why?"

"Read this." He thrust the page he had been reading at me, and I scanned it.

"Emperor Nero got hold of Orpheus' Lyre and it's the cause of all the volcanic activity," I summed up, "and you want to retrieve it."

Mario was busy kissing my neck but he paused to say "Yes, but first we must overcome two things. First, the Templars have this information as well, most likely, and even if they don't, they watch us even as we keep an eye on them. Should we go digging a gigantic hole in the shade of Monte Vesuvio, they'll be on us. We would of course go looking for that mold you're after, so the digging would have to be extensive. Impossible to hide, and besides, the Assassins are not prepared for something on that scale. But—."

He got the sort of look on his face that I associate with the word 'Eureka!', and he stopped undoing my bodice laces. "You said there's all kinds of artwork and treasures down there among the ruins."

"Yes."

"And this credenza of yours has all the details?"

"Yes."

"And there's a lot of it?"

"Literally tons, and much of it perfectly preserved. Pompeii and Herculaneum were the playgrounds for the very rich—anybody who was Somebody had a house there, and they did not stint on the cost of their vacation homes." I told him.

"Can you show me what it's like?"

"Yes," I brought up a documentary about some of the more notable finds, set the language soundtrack for the Italian of this age and area, explained a little about what he was going to see, then started playback.

He watched in perfect silence for fifty-five minutes as the documentary showed all one hundred eighteen pieces of silver tableware from the House of Menander, perfect and beautiful, the vibrantly colored wall frescos from the Villa of the Mysteries, the precise detailing of the intaglios from the House of the Gem Carver, and more.

When it was over, he turned to me and said, "Ginevra Schiavoni de Auditore, I don't know if you are the one Altair wrote of, but if you are not, I could not ask for better help. I don't know if that makes me the Prophet or Ezio. Porte del Diavolo, maybe we're all Prophets.

"So the Assassins can't carry out an—what do you call it? An excavation? on that size and hide it. So what? We won't be the ones who fund this. Do you know who loves things like this, almost more than his soul? Lorenzo. He collects objects of antiquity and this—we won't show him this documentary, but do you know what you're going to do? You're going to draw up a map and directions with all kinds of details, which you will find among your father's notes when you go to assemble a manuscript for the printers. In a few weeks, we'll bring it to him, and he'll arrange it all. This time, though, the price we ask for it is going to be twenty percent of what's found, ten percent finder's fee and another ten for hiring the condotta. Once people see what's coming out of the ground, he'll _need_ an army to fend them off."

"You do realize that the documentary showed only a fraction of what is down there?" I warned him. "It will take a very long time to dig it all out of the ground."

"So much the better. Whatever Lorenzo doesn't want to keep, he can sell off or give away. From the looks of it, the valuables under there will fund the Medici for a thousand years. And while that's going on—we will not only find this noble mold you seek, we will uncover the Temple of Jove Vesuvio and retrieve the Lyre. Our digging will be concealed within the enormity of the greater dig!" Wild celebratory sex seemed to be called for at that point, so we had some.

Afterward he was a little melancholy, as men sometimes are. "It hardly seems possible that such a bout of Venus could never prove fruitful," he said. By which he meant, after sex that good it seemed only right that we should be discussing what to name the resulting baby.

"I would it could be otherwise," I told him, "but you know that I—."

He patted my bare hip. "Even were you the most fertile woman living, it would make no difference. I had a fever when I was young, but not young enough. You know the one that makes your face swell up like this?" He puffed out his cheeks and made fulsome gestures with his hands. "When a lad gets it at the wrong age, it can go to his balls and make them swell up too. Hurt like hell. The doctor said then that, like as not, I would never sire children. Like sowing cooked grain, he said. You can put all you like into the ground, and nothing would come up. Well, I've ploughed enough—." he smiled. "—in my time, and never did any woman come by to return a present I gave her nine months before."

"You mean you had the mumps," I said, enlightened. Yes, the mumps would account for the kind of microscarring he had, much better than any blow to the groin. It was rare, but male sterility could result.

"Is that what you call it? Funny name." he commented. "That's why I didn't marry before. No point, I thought."

"I'm sorry," I said. "That must have been hard to accept." Paternity and masculinity went hand in hand in that culture; it was difficult for a man to be accepted as a man if he had no proof in the form of children of his begetting.

"I got over it," he shrugged. "Ezio will be my heir." He raised himself up on an elbow to look at me seriously. "Micina, I'm fifty-six. Life waited until now to match me with the right one. I wish I were twenty years younger—or even ten, but I'm not. In twenty years, should I live so long, I'll be an old man. Some might even say I'm old now! But you'll still be young and beautiful…Even if it doesn't happen in my life, I know some day there will be someone else. All I ask is, if you have any respect for me, that it not be Ezio."

We were too old for prevarication, for false indignation, for so many things. What was called for now was the truth. "I can promise you that." Why did I not make him the offer I made Leonardo right then?

Simple. I wanted to analyze his DNA first, to see how damaged it was. He was twice Leo's age and his chromosomes might be degraded to the point where the repair kit could do little or nothing, and in that case, the nanobots were a death sentence. So I waited until he fell asleep, and then I turned on my credenza's hush field, which worked rather like the spell on Sleeping Beauty's castle and put every mortal in transmission range to sleep or kept them there if they were already. That was more so I wouldn't wake him than anything else, but it proved invaluable. Taking a shed hair of his, I sat down and told the credenza to map out his genes. I immediately got a priority order to send all information on my sample to Dr. Zeus at once, causing me to panic briefly until I realized it was an automatic response from within the credenza rather than an outside signal. Certain markers were flagged, but why?

Well, on the very first night I had met Ezio, I had spotted that he must have some out of the ordinary genes floating around in his pool. His eagle vision, the way he could leap from a tower and not be dashed to bits on landing, that he was a Crome generator, his remarkable good health—all of which was also true of Mario. But the information I teased out of my credenza, which was extremely reluctant to give it up, was even more remarkable.

His DNA had not degraded. Oh, he wasn't immortal—he didn't have the right telomerase, and his chrononine levels were right for a man of his age—all bodily cells 'know' how old the body is that they come from, which is why clones taken from adult animals rapidly age to match their originator—but the chromosomes themselves were as intact as they must have been at birth. Which wasn't possible, even in a pre-Industrial Revolution world, before chemicals and eventually radiation started to take their toll on the population.

No wonder these markers were flagged. Of course Dr. Zeus would want to know this.

Yet still, why? I unwrapped the nearest bar of chocolate, took a bite, and nearly choked. It was filled with Black Elysium liqueur, which was rife with euphorics and hallucinogenics. It had been a case of 'beggars can't be choosers' when I bought my stash, and I had sure been begging. Not my favorite, but I waste neither good chocolate nor good liquor, so I ate it anyway.

The Black Elysium alone wouldn't have gotten to me, but the theobromine went straight to my brain taking the liqueur with it. My thinking got pleasantly fuzzy around the edges as I worked, and fuzzier still. What were the strange gene complexes in his DNA for? By process of elimination, I narrowed it down to memory. Genetic memory, in fact. Mario's DNA was set up to store an infinite amount of data. From one conception to the next, in his chromosomes were the memories of every person who inherited those complexes, and if his brain were tickled in the right places, all those stored memories could come tumbling out. And there was plenty of room left for new information. This was an amazing discovery! It would eliminate the need for memory augmentation.

In fact—the more I looked, the more I was struck by what I saw. It was as if some of his genes were designed for immortality. Waiting. I went back and took some more samples to confirm—a scraping from his inner cheek, some skin cells, even a microcore of bone marrow from his shin. I applied bone stim to heal the tiny puncture and overlaid it with syntheskin afterward.

Did Claudia and Ezio share these genes? Their father, the late Giovanni Auditore, was Mario's brother. Ezio had come in some time before, and both lay in Hush Field slumber, so I went on a fact-finding expedition. The answer: Ezio had more of the same genes than Claudia did—they seemed to be recessive genes. In Ezio and Mario, and presumably in Giovanni, those genes were active while Claudia was more of a carrier, which made sense. She did not have Eagle Vision or various other Assassin traits.

What this amounted to was that none of the three of them needed a chromosome repair kit. In fact, they wouldn't even need a full dose of nanobots. More than half the work was already done.

And so it was that I broke open a repair kit, put the tube of chromosome fixer back still sealed, and injected one quarter of a tube of nanobots each into Ezio and Claudia, and the rest into Mario. Without their knowledge and consent, while under the influence of a potent combination of drugs.

It seemed like a good idea, that's all I can say.

And I had one hell of a Theobromos hangover in the morning. But at least nobody was dead.

* * *

A/N: Tomorrow Brotherhood comes out. As a result I probably won't update for a few days. I doubt anybody will, but I expect the inspiration will be flowing thick and fast!


	37. Time and Again

From: Forzare

To: Labienus

Sir, your caution, although natural, is misplaced. The consortium I represent desires the long-term, open ended lease of the art preservation specialist Ginevra, complete with one standard field unit credenza. No more, no less. To that end, they are prepared to offer genetic materials taken from a previously undiscovered human variant they have chosen to designate 'Eden'. The chromosome analyses of seven individuals from the same family line, male and female both, are appended here. They are not the only materials on offer; merely a sampling of one genetic line to allow for contrast and comparison. Familial relationships are noted in the précis.

Sincerely,

Forzare

* * *

From: Labienus

To: Nennius

I am forwarding to you the entirety of the correspondence I have had to date with 'Forzare'. Having reviewed the analyses, I find that if genuine, the traits are intriguing. There are intimations of immortality in these DNA spirals, as if someone had taken it into their heads to try and breed it into the monkeys; the tessaracting of the genetic memory storage is in itself a work of art. Fancy that; a mortal with the genetic potential for infinite memory! Of course, that's like taking a Rolls Royce engine and putting it into a Model T Ford's chassis, but still.

More to the point, these _are_ unknown variants and I for one would like to know where they come from. I've reviewed the personnel files of the art preservationist Ginevra. She's no one we can't spare, whatever they mean to do with her—just another little worker bee. Although she might have made quite a good Facilitator; early on, she was even career tracked into their development program. On further testing, however, she showed tendencies toward inappropriate emotional attachments, and was reassigned to Conservation.

Even so, she did manage to almost cause some trouble during the Holocaust. No official disciplinary action was taken—she spent five years moldering in quicklime, which was punishment enough. As we happen to know she cannot possibly do any harm, whatever happens to her, and since her usefulness is about at an end, I shall see what I can get for her—one less to concern ourselves with, come the End Times. I plan to open the bidding at genetic samples of five thousand different individuals. They won't have nearly that many, so between offers and counteroffers, I will discover the size of this unique subset of the monkeys, and how they've managed to slip through the cracks.

Yours,

Labienus

* * *

From: Forzare

To: Everyone

Okay, friends and cousins. We need five thousand different genetic signatures. Hopefully enough of you will step forward and volunteer. If I don't have enough by Friday, I'll start calling on folks at random, and believe me, rolling up your sleeve for it will be easier. You all know what is at stake-don't make me come and get you.

* * *

Mario Auditore woke, and noticed two-no, three things immediately. First, that the inn must not be as clean as he had been told, because something had bitten him in at least two places in the night—the left shin and right buttock. In the case of the buttock, it had left a nasty welt. (That had been the biomechanical injection site.) Second, other than the bites, he felt very good. More so than could be accounted for by the lingering pleasures of the night before. (The nanobots were clearing out various free radicals and oxidants from his system.) And third, that his wife was looking very pale as she massaged her temples.

"Something wrong, Micina?" he asked, sitting up beside her.

"Not very," she muttered. "Only that I can't hold my candy. I was awake for a while after you fell asleep, and I wanted a piece of chocolate. The bar I got had liqueur in it, and if I hadn't finished it, it would have leaked everywhere and been wasted. Instead,_ I_ got wasted."

"You need anything for it? Hartshorn, or something?" he asked.

"Just some water, and if there are some sweets left from last night, they'll help too. Thank you."

After eating some of the candied apricots and drinking a flagon or two of water, her color improved, but her expression did not. She looked at him, and if that was not a guilty look on her face, he couldn't read faces. "All right, come out with it. What did you do?" he coaxed.

"Are you feeling all right this morning?" she answered with a question.

"Me? I'm feeling fine, other than a couple of bug bites or something."

"That's good. Last night, while you were asleep—I stopped time for you. That is, I injected you with a medicine that will keep you from growing any older. It won't make you immortal, but if you're careful not to get killed in some other way, you'll go on living as you are for at least two hundred years longer. Maybe more. Much more."

The words don't make sense initially. "You did what?"

She turns her face to his, and his heart beats a little faster as he gazes on what is, to him, breathtaking beauty. What draws him to her is the same thing which Claudia identified at first glance—Ginevra might be the daughter of any olive grower or market gardener anywhere in Tuscany. Exactly the sort of girl he had known as a lad, who always had a smile (and often a kiss or more) for a handsome young Mario, one still unscarred and carefree, in the sunny summer days of his youth, before he went to war or inherited the villa.

"Last night, when you spoke of your own mortality," she explains, "such dread overcame me, that old age or disease should rob me of you, and so soon. Having by me the means to prevent that fate, I administered to you a medicine that will keep you from aging and encourage you to heal as I do. There are many ways that you could still die, but if it is not instant and irreparable, you will probably live."

"Yes, that I understand, but—just like that? I go to sleep a man who is…not getting any younger, and wake to learn I'm not getting any older either? Should I not rather thank you? So what's the long face for, Micina?"

"Wait and thank me in fifty years, when you have had to leave everything behind you, pretend to die, and change your name three or more times."

He laughed, thinking she looked more like a forlorn little cat than ever. "That is not so high a price to pay. Think of my profession. Do you suppose such a thing has never happened before? I am an Assassin. We can be notoriously long lived, and often must leave a name and an area when we are grown too notorious.

"Indeed, the one who wrote the original of the page I showed you last night, may not be dead, and_ he_ was born in 1165. We of the Brotherhood aid one another. Should, as it may happen, in twenty years or so, 'Mario Auditore' must pass away, then in some other city, under some other name, I will begin anew. And if, after a suitable interval, Mario's widow should move to that city, and marry again, and if her new husband should bear a marked resemblance to her first husband-such things have been known to happen."

"In twenty years we may not be able to stand each other." she pointed out.

"Perhaps not," he allowed, "but I think not." He reached out to shift the hair away from her face.

She laughed, but it was the sort of laugh that is tainted by sadness. "What makes you so sure?"

"Because there was Ezio, in the flower of young manhood, and there I was. I am battered, old, saggy, and so marred that some people make the sign of the evil eye against me when I go among them, and still, somehow, you preferred me. That has to count for something."

"There are so many replies I would like to make to that, that I can't choose just one. But as I told Claudia, Ezio is too young and callow for me, and you are...just right."

"He won't always be so," Mario replied.

"But by then I will have watched him grow up, and it won't be the same. While I'm speaking of Ezio and Claudia, however-there is more." She looked away, and her mouth did something unhappy.

"What?"

"I…gave the medicine to Claudia and Ezio as well." She heaved a sigh and her shoulders slumped.

"Why?"

"Because I was maudlin drunk, and the thought of their deaths was almost as dire to me as yours. That is a mere excuse, though-the true reason is that loss and loneliness are the worst curses of a long and drawn out existence. The only consolation is companionship, having others who remember. Now I have condemned them to outlive their spouses and their children. It was selfish and monstrous of me."

That struck a chord with Mario, because the loss of his brother had been like having an invisible limb chopped off his body. The companion of his boyhood, the only other one who remembered racing their horses up into the main hall of the villa-and the whupping both had gotten afterward. Pranks, jokes, serious times, illnesses, everything, all those years, all the things they had done and seen together-good and bad, half of those memories were gone now.

When he'd got the news, he'd gone down into the wine cellar that night and drank until he was able to let go and cry. When he sobered up, he had locked up his grief as if in a box and put it away, because what was left of his brother's family was on their way and their griefs were greater. And after all, he was a man.

So now, he said, "Be serious, Micina. Do you think there's anyone in the world who wouldn't want to stay healthy and young all their lives? People often outlive their spouses and children. They grieve and mourn, and then they recover. Although," he said, thoughtfully, "I don't know that you need to tell them right now. If you tell Ezio, you might as well tell Claudia, and if you tell Claudia, whatever truce you have going is broken. Besides, if this medicine works like you say, there will be plenty of time."

"I hope so," she said, settling into the arms he held open for her. "I hope so."

* * *

Almost before anyone knew it, it was Monday, the day Leonardo and Ezio were to leave on the first leg of their journey to Venice. Privately, Ezio wondered if they would even manage to get outside Firenze's city walls. The first word that came to mind when he saw the wagon his friend had hired was 'rattletrap'. The second was 'boneshaker'. The third was 'merde'.

"Uh—Leonardo, among the many things you're bringing, do you have such a thing as a repair kit?" he asked, as the two of them wired a newly made and capacious iron parrot cage to the uprights. The cage looked ten times sturdier than the carriage did.

"Oh, I have enough to improvise as needs be," Leo assured him, airily.

"I hope you're right." Ezio cast an eye over the rest of the baggage. "What is that thing?" he poked his chin toward a contraption in the opposite corner. "It looks like a giant bat."

"That? It's nothing. Just an idea I've been working on. Thanks to Ginevra, I have now the final piece, so to speak, which will make this truly workable."

"But what does it do?" Ezio gives his wire a final wrap and shakes his side of the cage, testing his work.

"I really shouldn't talk about it—Ah, che diavolo, I can't keep it in any longer!" Leonardo burst out, nearly vibrating with excitement. " I have the means to make a man fly—and that's only just the start. At least, it is if I ever get up the courage to try antigravity on a living thing."

"Anti what? The only anti I know about is antipasto. Speaking of which, I brought along a hamper of provisions from the inn." Ezio said. Since they were leaving so early, the family had said their goodbyes to the two young men the night before over dinner. "Not all of it has meat."

"That was very thoughtful of you," Leo said. "I think that does it. Antigravity is a bit of a misnomer. What it actually is, is the application of certain forces which repel matter. You are familiar with compasses and lodestones?"

"Um...yes," Ezio replied, although his recollection was a little dim. "Compasses have a little sliver of lodestone in them which wants to point north."

"That's correct. Well, if you put two lodestones together, one end of each will be attracted to one end of the other, while the other end repels it." Leonardo did love to talk, and Ezio let him go on while they carried other trunks and baskets to the waiting caretta. "...and so one can cause any object to float-why do I have the feeling that I'm forgetting something?"

"Maybe because you are," Ezio pointed to the empty cage. "It makes little sense to bring the cage without the bird."

"Ah!" Leonardo hurried back into the workshop and came out with the parrot, (who was now called 'Wicked', since that was the word he repeated most often) and the parrot's gear. "Here we are," he said, introducing the bird into his new cage. "See? There's plenty of room for you to spread your wings, and I'll put your food dish here. Water would spill, but I'll give you some fresh whenever we stop. Your toys are hanging right there."

"You really believe he can understand you?" Ezio asked, quite amused.

"I believe he understands my tone of voice," Leonardo replied. "And I've made excellent progress with him. In the last few days, I've taught him to identify, by name, no less than eight different foods. Here, I'll show you."

Taking a nut from the food dish, he held it up before Wicked's eyes. "What this?" he asked the African Grey.

"Ammond," said the parrot, correctly identifying the seed, even if he did not pronounce it perfectly. "Want grape."

"What did you say?" Leonardo stared at the bird.

"Want grape," the bird repeated himself. "Graaaaape."

"Are there any?" da Vinci turned to his friend.

"I think so," Ezio searched around in the basket of food, and came up with a bunch of fat dark grapes.

"Graaaape!" Wicked stretched out his neck, reaching for the tidbit. "Want grape!" Taking it in his beak, he adjusted it with his foot and nibbled on it.

"This is wonderful!" Leonardo practically exploded. "Actual interspecies communication. From identification to comprehension, and so soon! I've started a notebook on him. Now, where did I pack it?"

"No!" Ezio blocked his friend from tearing through the luggage in search of the book in question. "No note-taking, or we won't stir until noon." Much to his surprise, the caretta waited until they were a mile or two out of the city before breaking down.

"I can fix it," Leonardo climbed down to inspect the damage. "Oh, it's a broken cotter. This is odd. All the other cotters are made of hard oak, but this one was pine. Much too soft, and it's newer, too. I wonder why... Let me see, what can I replace it with? No, that won't do..."

While Leo hunted, Ezio looked around at the hills. Light glinted off metal on a promontory in the distance-a wood cutter's axe? Or a soldier's helm? "Ezio? Can you hold this side of the carriage up for a moment?"

"Sure. Uuuhhh!" He held up his end of things, so to speak, while Leonardo applied his immense intellect to the task of replacing a wheel. "What was it my uncle wanted to talk to you about last night?"

"Last night? Oh, it was about that portfolio of drawings I did of Ginevra-you remember the ones."

Ezio did indeed, and he nodded, shifting his grip on the wood.

"He bought them from me, with the understanding that I am never to use her figure as a reference, ever again. Which is a shame, because I had a request for a Temptation of Saint Anthony. Patrons often want Anthonys because one can put in a nude woman or two as examples of Temptation, and the more voluptuous, the better. There, it's done."

"About time, too." The two friends climbed back up on the driver's seat again, and headed into the Apennines. Ezio nodded to himself. "I did a good thing when I matched Uncle Mario and Ginevra with one another. He looks younger all the time now, and she doesn't talk like she's having visions. This marriage is good for both of them."

"You say your uncle looks younger? I wonder..." Leonardo mused aloud.

"You wonder what? Hey, since I did so well the first time, what if I try to find someone for you?" Ezio offered, as much in jest as anything else. "What do you prefer? Tall or short? Dark or fair?"

"Oh, tall, definitely," Leo said, sounding a little odd. "And dark, too. Yes, tall and dark. But I wish you wouldn't. I...doubt I'll ever marry."

"Why not?" Ezio asked, not really paying attention, because a man on horseback had just appeared on a ridge above them. He waved his arm in what was obviously a signal, and he was looking-in their direction? No, at something or someone behind them. Ezio turned. Riders! At least a dozen of them, dressed in Borgia colors! "Leonardo, get below."

"What's wrong? Who are they?" Leonardo asked, catching sight of their pursuers.

"Templar agents," Ezio answered tersely. "They're after me, not you." Leonardo went down into the body of the wagon, where Wicked was putting up a ruckus.

"Hya! HAH!" the young Assassin cried to the horses, stinging them with a whap of the reins, and the chase began.

The road through the Apennines was considered one of the most beautiful and scenic routes in Italy, if not all of Europe, but Ezio was hardly in a position to appreciate it as he sent the caretta careening through hairpin turns, scraping guards against boulders and trees, barely under control and with their vehicle threatening to come to pieces around them. One soldier leapt from his horse to lock his arms around Ezio's neck, and he had to drop the reins to break the man's hold and send him tumbling to the road.

"Just hold on a little longer, Ezio!" he heard Leonardo shout to him, as the caretta made a turn on two wheels, the other two spinning over a sheer precipice.

"Why?" he bawled back.

The reply, if reply it was, came to his ears as, "Let x be the mass-better extend it up the sides-and allowing for the coefficient of expansion-Done it!"

Simultaneous with Leo's cry of 'Done it!', the caretta suddenly ceased pitching and reeling, and became as steady as a boat on the calmest, most mirror-like lake. Like a boat, it swayed with motion of their movement, but gently. Another Borgia guard leapt from his horse to the roof of their wagon, or tried to, but he bounced off an invisible barrier like a coin bouncing off a tautly tucked bedsheet. The look of astonishment on the hapless guard's face was priceless.

Ezio turned to yell to Leonardo, "What did you do? Is it some kind of magic?"

"No. Better-it's mathematics! Spring them, Ezio!" Leonardo's instructions were unnecessary. The horses, finding themselves and their load suddenly much lighter, lifted their heads and began to run as though their mothers had concieved them by the wind. They peeled away from their pursuers with ease and left the stunned horsemen gaping in their wake.

Leonardo climbed back up through the trapdoor to take his seat on the box again. His blue eyes sparkled like the birth of galaxies. "So much potential!" he said. "Did you notice, Ezio, that neither the caretta's wheels nor the horses' hooves are touching the ground?"

"They're not?" Ezio leaned over to have a look. There was a handspan of _nothing_ between the wheels and the ground. "Then what are we traveling on?"

"We are traveling on air as if it were water and we were a ship," Leo explained. "In fact, I shaped the field like a ship, long and pointed in the front, to allow the air to slide around us without impeding our forward motion. The sides are high enough so those men can't jump on us unless they came from straight above. I had to leave to top open to allow fresh air to reach us, and for stability. The weight of the air pressing down on us from above acts like ballast in the bottom of a boat."

"Is this that antigravity you were talking about?" Ezio asked as they slid through another group of horsemen as if on greased rails and took a hairpin turn like they were tethered.

"Yes. There are so many possible uses for it, I don't know where to begin. Do you realize we must be traveling at least fifty miles per hour, quite steadily?" Leonardo squinted at the trees as they flashed by.

"Is that dangerous?" Ezio asked.

"Only if we make an abrupt stop. What are they doing up ahead?" Leo craned his neck to see. Borgia's men had gotten over their initial shock and were trying to regroup. Some of them were making frantic arm signals at someone as yet unseen.

With a great _Fwoosh!,_ the bridge ahead caught fire. "Is that bad?" Ezio asked. "I mean, if we're not touching the ground, can the fire burn us?"

"I think we're going too fast for it to matter," Leo replied. "In fact, I don't know if we need to stay on the road. We might be able to drive from peak to peak over the valley, like going from the shallows on one side of a lake to the shallows of the other. The fact that the water gets deeper doesn't affect the boat. But the horses might panic, and-frankly, bravery is not my strong suit."

They reached the blazing bridge and swept over it without a waver, despite the gaps and crumbling timbers. "I believe I feel like Moses as he looked out over the Promised Land,," Leo observed as another group of horrified Templar Guards flashed by, "I can see what Ginevra was going on about, now. Imagine a world in which traveling like this is commonplace, over land, over oceans, even between stars! One lifetime...one lifetime just isn't enough. Moses never got to set foot on that Land, but I-I will. I must."


	38. Mitochondria

Mitochondria... If that word sounds familiar, it's because mitochondria are one of the parts of a cell, something to be memorized, along with the Golgi apparatus, (which always made me think of a lump of macaroni,) the endoplasmic reticulum, and the ribosomes. Such things feature prominently on introductory biology tests, often with a diagram to be labeled.

Mitochondria weren't part of the original cellular package, however; a few billion years ago, just as the whole multicellular thing was starting to come together, mitochondria were a very simple little bacteria trying to scrape out a living. Then they jumped on board a multicellular organism for the same reason any bacteria does—to gain a steady food source, only instead of making the host organism weaker or sicker, mitochondria made it stronger and healthier.

Instead of being a parasite like an out-of-work roommate who pays no rent, eats all the groceries, and doesn't do any picking up, the humble and tiny mitochondrion was more like a life partner who balances the household budget, prepares meals, and keeps the place spotless. Eventually the two of them—that is, multicellular life and mitochondria—were literally no longer able to do without each other, and mitochondria became hereditary.

However, in this marriage-like arrangement, mitochondria kept its maiden name in the form of keeping its own DNA. Why am I telling you all of this? Because it could happen again at any time. The thing is, when I injected Mario, Ezio and Claudia with those nanobots, I did more than I realized. Exactly what was not apparent for some time, although early signs of it started almost at once….

The last moment of relative normality was this:

I entered the maiolica manifattura and paused. It was small, but its goods, tin-glazed earthenware dishes and other household articles, were well made, their designs painted with skill and even artistic flair in shades of blue, amber, green, yellow, and orange, plus black and white. The matronly woman who hurried over to greet me was, I knew, Faustina Brunelli, widow of the previous owner and currently in charge. "Welcome to our shop, Madonna. What may I do for you today?"

"I wish to commission a dinner service for twenty," I told her. Twenty was the maximum number of people who could fit around the table at the villa, "with all the accompanying serveware." If I were a mortal woman, this was something I might have brought with me as part of my dowry. I would have been hard put to explain exactly why I wanted it. The plates in use at the villa then were plain and old but perfectly serviceable. I suppose I just wanted to add something to it, something of my choice. "This is the design I want. You can put whatever you like around the rim, but this is the main motif."

Bringing out a sketch I had devised, I unrolled the scroll on the countertop. The central motif united the two aspects of the Auditore family, the coat of arms and the Assassin symbol. By making the shield which bore the arms teardrop shaped, when the plate was turned the other way, the bold outline and the bay leaves of the Assassin crest showed clearly.

"Yes, we can do this," Donna Brunelli said, looking it over. "We have the blank plates on hand. It will take a couple of weeks. "

"That will be fine." We would be leaving Firenze for a while, but once the map of Pompeii was finished, we would return, and I could collect the order then. "However," I went on, "as you can see, there is a lot of red in the crest. In the examples I see here, you have no true red, not such as I have seen on pieces of Iznikware from Turkey." Pigments for pottery aren't like regular paint—they have to withstand firing. Red was a tricky one to make, unless you knew exactly how. Thanks to my credenza, I did.

"You are correct, Madonna. The secret of such red is not known to anyone but the Turks. However, with orange and brown, we can come close."

"What would the formula for a true red be worth to you?" It would be over twenty years before true reds started showing up in traditional Florentine maiolica, I knew.

"Oh, a fortune, Madonna, if such a thing were possible," she replied.

" 'A fortune' is too general to base a contract on," I said, smiling to show I was friendly. "I prefer an actual sum."

She stared at me. "You don't—you don't mean to say you have the secret of making red?" I nodded. "Oh, Blessed Virgin—Madonna, will you not come into my office?"

She produced a plate of pine nut cookies and small glasses of liqueur before we got down to business. "May I ask your name, Madonna?"

"Ginevra Schiavoni, and by marriage, Auditore."

"Signora Auditore, how did you come by such a fabulous secret?"

"My late father was a physician, and a much traveled man. When he lived in Cyprus, he cured the son of a potter who had lived among the heathen. Having no other means of paying him, the man gave him the best thing he had, which was the formula for true red. I found it amongst his papers." I explained.

"I see…And you mean to offer it to me?" She pointed at her own breast bone.

"Should I not? It is of no use to me; I am not a potter."

"But why me?" she leaned forward.

"This past week, I have had to say, 'Sir, if you do not wish to transact with me because I am a woman, I will take my business and my florins elsewhere.' or something similar, far too many times. I thought it would make a pleasant change of pace to deal with a woman for once, and I asked about until I learned which manifatture were run by women. I liked your designs. That is all."

"I understand. I myself find my sex a disadvantage when it comes to procuring the best clay." She took a deep breath. "Signora, the secret of true red is worth a fortune. I do not have a fortune. Indeed, I have debts. I could pay you no more than fifty florins now, but if I had the formula for red, in six months I would have that fortune."

"In all truth, I don't need the money so much as I need a long-term source for lotion bottles, something like the cruets you make for aceto and olio. If you were to agree to a half-price deal on everything I order from you for the next thirty years, including the dinner service, you could be firing your first batch of wares with a true red pigment by this evening." We came to an agreement, drew up a contract, and I departed, leaving behind a very happy maiolica maker with a formula for true red.

I looked at the sun. By now, Claudia's reunion should be breaking up. It had been scheduled and postponed twice, until I bowed out with regrets. (funny how that worked, wasn't it?) Changing my route, I found her saying goodbye to her friends at the door. "Oh, yes, of course I'll think of you," she was telling someone as she hugged her, her smile bright and tight, "just as often as you think of me."

Straightening up, she caught my eye, and her expression said, as clear as words or perhaps even clearer, 'Get me out of here or I will not be responsible for my actions.'

"Mia dispiace, but we must hurry, Claudia. We don't want to be late." I told them, not specifying _what_ we would be late for, and I waited until we were a couple of streets away before I asked, "So how was the reunion?"

"Abominevole," she replied. "When they weren't picking away at me for being unmarried as yet, they were complaining of their in-laws, and when they weren't complaining of their in-laws, they complained of their servants, and when not of their servants, then of their husbands, and if not of their husbands, then of their children. Once they tired of that, it was back to me again. It's enough to make me want to stay single!...The odd thing is, though, that I could tell who was going to be hostile and who wasn't even before they said a single word."

"How so?" I asked.

"The nasty ones had this—I don't want to call it a halo, it was more like the glow around the edge of a candle flame—around them in red. The few nice ones, and there were two or three of them, were blue. But most of them hadn't any glow at all."

That…sounded to me a lot like Eagle Vision as Ezio and Mario had described it. "Do I have a glow?" I asked.

She narrowed her eyes and squinted at me for a moment as we walked. "No."

"Maybe it was your mind's way of telling you what you already knew about them. You did know them before, and you must have formed impressions of them then. If it happens again, with people you don't know, I think you ought to speak to Mario about it."

"Is it…something to do with the family business?" she asked, delicately alluding to the Assassins.

"Possibly," I replied.

"Then I will. Oh, there's something I wanted to talk to you about. That soap and lotion you gave Donna Clarice. Word gets around, and everybody wanted to know how they could get some. I said I didn't know how much you made, because I didn't. I've been using what you kept for our use—you did say I could—and what I think is, a lot of people will want to buy them. They're very good, much better than anything you can get at an apothecary's. I think you ought to make them for sale."

"I'd been thinking about that, actually. Do you think there would be enough profit in it?" I asked. (I didn't want to quash her by saying I planned on it, and had already ordered supplies.)

"If you can tell me how much soap and lotion you get from one batch of each, what ingredients you used and how much of them, I can tell you exactly how much a cake of soap and a bottle of lotion would have to sell for, to make a fifty percent profit." So could I, but her involvement was more important than showing off how well my computer augmented brain could calculate figures.

Claudia went on, "Of course we couldn't go around selling them ourselves, but the dottore in Monteriggioni would stock them, and then we could pay the waystation clerks a little something to recommend them to travelers. If demand were great enough, then apothecaries and physicians in other places would want to sell them too, and they would have to buy from us by sending bank drafts through the mail, and we'd ship what they bought to them in bulk. Then I think it might be worth it to have Ezio pay heralds in other cities to say something like:

" 'If you are troubled by skin eruptions, rashes or foul bodily odors, the Snow-Pure Soap of Monteriggioni'—I made up the name for it. You could call it anything you wanted—'Snow-Pure Soap will banish them. Made from the formula of the famed Dottore Sigismundo Schiavoni, Snow-Pure Soap is gentle enough for the skin of the smallest bambino yet marvelously effective against all kinds of dirt on anything washable. After bathing with Snow- Pure Soap, why not soothe your skin with Rose-Dew Lotion, which protects against chapping while also restoring and preserving the freshness of your complexion. Available at only the finest apothecaries.'"

She did a good imitation of the style in which heralds spoke, and it made me smile. Continuing on, she explained, "You see, saying that they're _only_ available at the finest apothecaries means that _all_ apothecaries would have to sell them, or look second rate."

"You've put a lot of thought into this," I said, surprised. For someone from a society that hadn't yet heard of mass-marketing, she had a remarkable grasp of advertising.

"Yes, well, I was so bored listening to them that I had to think about _something_. So what do you think? I could start a section of the ledger just for this business."

"Once my father's book is published and people can read about his remedies, they'll want to buy those, too. Until other people can start manufacturing the medicines on their own, which may take a while, they'll have to get them from somewhere. I think your idea is the perfect way of selling not just soap and lotion, but all the rest." I said.

"Wonderful! When we get back—." She stopped there because a youth in the garb of a thief came running up to us.

"You are the Auditore ladies, yes? If so, you are wanted back at the inn at once. There has been a terrible accident at your villa in Monteriggioni and Ser Mario is needed there," he gasped.

"Thank you," I said, and gave him a handful of florins for his trouble.

"I wonder what can have happened?" Claudia said, as we picked up our skirts and hastened along.

"The architect had several workmen down in the well, trying to find water," Mario explained when we reached our rooms a few minutes later, "when something happened. The message wasn't clear about what. Two workmen were killed outright, twice as many injured, and not all the injured are expected to live. If we push it and change horses along the way, we can be back there by nightfall. Pack only what you truly need—Annetta will take care of the rest and bring it along with her."

Claudia nodded and disappeared into her room. I started changing my clothes for a new riding dress I had had made, one which would allow me to ride astride. "A cave-in?" I asked while unlacing.

Mario was dashing off a few notes at the table. "Not from what I understand. It sounds like one of my great-grandfather's devices—he was a man of secrets and mysteries, but he wasn't whimsical about it. If he made a deadly trap, it was for good reason. I—." He paused, turning his head from side to side. The sun was streaming in the window, and he was sitting in the best light, the better to write by. Now he reached up and covered his good eye with one hand (getting a smudge of ink on his forehead), turning his head right and then left, so his bad eye was first in shadow and then in the light.

"What is it?" I asked.

"There's an orange spot when I look at the sun. I haven't seen anything with that eye for nearly twenty years," he said, now covering the bad eye. "If it's all in my head, then covering this eye shouldn't make any difference—but it does. I think some of my sight must be returning. Micina, do _you_ have an answer for this?" He dropped his hands and looked at me.

"It's the medicine I gave you in your sleep. I wasn't sure how well it would work, and I didn't want to get your hopes up," I explained. "Better that you should be surprised than disappointed."

I did not expect any dramatic changes to happen to either Ezio or Claudia as a result of injecting them with nanobots, because they were young and healthy. Unless one of them was seriously injured, it might take them years to notice anything was different, and then it would only be in comparison to others their age. The person to whom it would make the most difference was Mario.

I had not promised him the 'medicine' I gave him would restore his eye and reduce his scars, much less that he might grow somewhat younger, for the same reason I gave him now. From the comments he made, he had noticed that various aches and pains he had accumulated over the years bothered him less and less every day, and he had more energy—signs that his nanobot colony was gradually building up and doing its work.

However, I wasn't expecting his eye to mend quite so soon, and if Claudia was developing Eagle Vision now as a result of the nanobots—what might I have set into motion, and where would it lead?

Some of the answer awaited us underneath the Villa Auditore, where unbeknownst to anyone, a Piece of Eden had been slumbering on standby mode for years, namely the Shroud. What happened then—will have to wait for the next segment of my tale.

* * *

A/N: Sorry about the long delay. I absolutely had to finish the main story of AC: Brotherhood before I could go on. As I said in an earlier chapter, the business about the Shroud being down in the well is from Project Legacy and in this AU, it went undiscovered until now. Mitochondria are indeed thought to have evolved the way I mentioned at the beginning.


	39. Deus Ex Machina

It was not possible to talk on the way back, riding as hard as we were, and Mario's anxiety for the welfare of his people only increased as we drew nearer to home. When we reached the gates, he leapt from his horse, threw the reins at a groom and strode up hill to the villa's green, where the architect waited, his head bandaged, and his shirt stiff and dark with dried blood.

"Ser Mario," he slurred, drunk on wine and poppy juice.

"Yes, I'm here," my spouse replied. "What happened, lad?"

"Was looking for the leak-the candle flickered. Followed the breeze-to a niche high up in the wall. Choked with rubble-big enough for a man to stand in. The men cleared it out, and then we...went in this passageway . I thought it must connect with the mine, because there was a chasm. Giuseppe fell down it-when we retreated. Arrows, razor wire-so much blood. Sorry."

Mario nodded. "It wasn't your fault. Go off to bed. It's not your problem any more." He helped the architect to his feet and handed him off to a couple of artisans, then turned to Claudia. "This is the work of our ancestor, to be sure. I want a lantern, a breastplate, helmet, gauntlets, and a halberd."

She nodded and dashed off into the house. He turned to me. "You might as well go in, Micina. I'll tell you all about it once it's over."

"You're not leaving me out of this?" I asked/told him. "You've never seen how fast and agile I can be. There is no one more apt and able for this task than I. Whatever dangers your great-grandfather built into that tunnel, they pose no threat to me. I cannot be killed—and you can. Besides, I have always wanted to explore a secret passage full of deathtraps. Are you going to deny me that lifelong dream?"

"Am I to watch a woman, and my wife at that, take the vanguard while I cower behind her?" he asked.

"It's not a question of letting," I said, and went into hyperfunction. I was down the well and up into the tunnel before he could react. His echoing voice chased me down the secret passage: "Micina! Ginevra! Don't do anything rash! Wife?"

There were several lit lanterns about, left behind by the fleeing workmen. I picked one that was full of oil and proceeded cautiously down the tunnel while Mario climbed down into the well with a clash of armor and equipment, cursing under his breath.

The long-ago Auditore who designed and built that passageway had not messed around. There was a bottomless chasm and there was razor wire. There were arrows and spears, there were sharp-edged pendulums and a classic tiger trap with sharpened stakes in the bottom, covered with a mat painted to look like stone. There was even a log tethered with chains that swung down like a battering ram.

Yet all these traps were designed to stop a person with normal reflexes, not a cyborg. I evaded, sidestepped and dodged, disarming what I could along the way, until, at last, I entered the final room and beheld—what? A little golden idol on a pressure-sensitive pedestal? The Lost Ark of the Covenant? The Holy Grail? No.

A simple wooden box, not unlike my credenza. Whatever was inside booted up—and I use that phrase to mean exact that. It booted up like a computer at my approach. ***CLEAR YOUR MIND*** it bellowed mentally.

"Modulate broadcast intensity," I replied the same way. My mind was anything but clear as I stared at the box. In my universe or dimension of origin, everything that was to do with the corporate entity called Dr. Zeus began with a discovery made on Santa Catalina Island, off the coast of California. On May 6th, 1579, a small group of English explorers landed on what was then called the island of San Salvador. There they found a box, which, when opened, proved to contain…something. An eyewitness account says that it looked like an article such as he had seen in the possession of John Dee, Elizabeth I's alchemist, astrologer and occultist. From it, in time, came the technology which led to the development, hundreds of years later, of both time travel and the immortality process that made me what I am.

Here was another box. And it broadcast on the same mental frequency that we cyborgs used to communicate with each other. "State function and purpose," I told it.

*Repair/revive/replace/heal/restore to defined parameters,* it replied.

Why hide something of such utility away—unless…."Transmit defined parameters and all data storage since last synchronization." I requested. Touching that box or its contents could be a very bad idea and very painful.

The object inside the box, whatever it might be, complied readily. There was no doubt that it was a Piece of Eden; its power made that clear.

What I learned from it, I find difficult to put into words. It was old, millennia old, and it had been made for use by and on a human-like race. Human-like. Not human. The optimal physical parameters made that clear. At first there had been many of what it called True People, but they succumbed to entropy and time eventually, and it fell into the hands of the fragile, short-lived Servitors—that is, humans. It was single-minded in its purpose and determined to fulfill its function, but when it tried to heal humans, it tried to upgrade them to the height of the True People, and under the onslaught of that remodeling, mortal flesh tore and shredded, bone splintered, brains turned to sponge pudding. It was too powerful for most humans to benefit from it.

And yet…among the Servitors, there flowed a strain of gold. The genes of the True People lived on in crossbreeds. Crossbreeds like Mario, Ezio, even Claudia. And—Jesus Christ.

_Literally_ Jesus Christ. A man, not tall as later ages would reckon tall, dark, markedly Semitic features was at the center of more than a decade of memories which the box's contents unfolded to me. I knew the face of the historic Christ. All cyborgs did—a fundamentalist Christian group had paid several fortunes to have a full video transcript of His life made—and then paid even more to suppress it. Mind you, I'd never seen the video—but I knew Him from still images.

He controlled this Piece of Eden, directed it to heal the sick and raise the dead._ Talitha, koumi._ Little girl, get up. A woman with uterine fibroids who had bled for decades touched the hem of His garment, and was healed. When He lay, cold in His Tomb, it made His heart to beat once more, His lungs to draw breath...but it could not sustain life for long. Just long enough for people to see Him, and for belief to be born.

My feet had almost unwillingly drawn me closer and closer to the rectangular shape of olivewood bound with brass. Yet I knew mine had been the will that brought me there, my mind driving my hand to slip the catch and open it.

What was inside? It looked, felt, like a length of pure white linen cloth, but to my enhanced vision, it coruscated with energy. Its fibers were identical to the fibers which replaced my nerves and tendons. Its operating system was compatible with my cranial computer. What this meant—was almost unthinkable.

* * *

In terms of artificial intelligence, the Shroud bore the same resemblance to one of the Apples that Wicked the parrot bore to Leonardo da Vinci. For what it was, it had enough intelligence, but it was nothing to compare to the Apples. The Shroud's function was simple: to heal, restore, revive. Lacking the concept of what a cyborg was, it knew only that it was communicating with another Piece of Eden while scanning a person who fit the physical parameters of a True Person. A young True Person, after centuries! Insofar as it had emotions, it rejoiced. Best of all, this True Person was capable of infinite regeneration. She would not, could not die the true death.

Although this was a True Person, it was also one with certain physical and mental impairments, and with-. Encountering her nanobots, it recognized them as extremely simple, microminiaturized versions of itself, and set about reprogramming them so it could be in constant contact with the True Person, and also told them to correct what it perceived as impairments, undoing limitations and governors Dr. Zeus had spent millions of dollars developing in order to better control its slaves.

* * *

It was as much as I could do to maintain my consciousness in the flood of all the memories it was transmitting to me. I started shunting them into data storage for later access and analysis. That was what I was doing when Mario caught up to me. "Don't touch it, " I told him, "It could turn you inside out."

He was shading his eyes from the intense, white light it shed. "Then I doubt you should be touching it either—You're bleeding!"

Was I? My face was wet. I touched it, and my had came away streaked with red. I was bleeding from my tear ducts, my ears, my nose—the coppery taste in my mouth said I bled there as well. "Just a few broken capillaries," I told him. "They'll heal. _Desist_," I ordered the Shroud.

*The bleeding is transitory. Ignore it. Ignore the pain. Function was impaired. Function shall be restored.*

"Desist!" I ordered it in its own language.

***Function must be fulfilled.* **it insisted. Whose function? Its or mine? Or both?

Mario ended what was a fruitless argument by shutting the box with the pole of the halberd he had with him. "Enough! You shouldn't have touched it. It's dangerous."

"I think you may be right," I admitted. I tried to get up, but my legs were unaccountably weak for a moment. He scooped me up. For the record, if I had been given some recovery time, I could have walked out of there on my own. Even though I had never been married before, I did know something about relationships and in nine hundred years, I had learned that sometimes it is more important to let the other person be right, and after treading on his pride as I had, this was one of those times.

Claudia was at the top of the well, her fear driving her close to hysteria. "Help her inside," Mario told her, setting me down on my feet next to her before ordering the workmen to cover the well. Claudia insisted on looking after me as if I were—as if I were Maria at her most fragile, and took me upstairs despite my objections. Mario came up a quarter of an hour or so later.

"I left the box down there," he told me. "It must be disposed of somehow, but I want to confer with other Assassins first. Why did you do that, Micina?"

"For the reason I said, and because fools always rush in where angels fear to tread, and to be sure, I feel like a fool tonight. What I learned from the Shroud is this—I have told you that I am part machine. Well, that was also a machine, and those parts of me that are machine are akin to it. I know now that my makers got hold of a Piece of Eden somehow, took it apart, studied it, and used what they learned to make my kind and to travel through time. You were right; I _was_ made with reference to a Piece of Eden, even if the Templars didn't make me.

"You, Ezio, Claudia…you are descended of Those Who Came Before, made in their image, crossbred with them when their own fertility waned. I am not; I was not. I was made in _the image of their machines_.

"This frightens me. It means that what can control one of them can also take control of me. I don't know what to do."

* * *

A/N: In The Life Of The World To Come, the sixth novel by Kage Baker about Dr. Zeus and the company, there is an excerpt from the mysterious Document D which I have referenced here. What was in it sounds very much like a Piece of Eden.


	40. Forli

"The problem is, we're now a day and a half early for the boat," Leonardo pointed out as they neared Forli.

"So what?" Ezio shrugged. "We'll have a look around Forli, kill some time, admire some ladies, have something to eat. It will be tomorrow before you know it." The area they drove through was marshy and somewhat squelchy, the humidity lending a grayish tone to the air, a hazy, dream-like quality.

They found lodging and brought some of their belongings in, including Wicked, who excited a great deal of attention because he said an extremely profane phrase and then repeated it seventeen times. Very loudly. Once they got settled, Ezio was preparing to go out again when Leonardo popped into his room. "You haven't seen my travel pass, have you?" he asked, looking very worried.

"Travel pass?" Ezio asked.

After some searching, the document was found tucked inside Leo's notebook on redirecting the flow of the Arno river. "Thank goodness that's been found. Without it, they wouldn't let me on board the ship," Leo breathed a sigh of relief.

"How do you go about getting one of those?" Ezio asked, looking at the paper.

"Don't you have one?" Leo asked. "Well, if you did, you wouldn't be asking, would you…I don't know how you could get one at this late date."

"I didn't know you needed one to visit Venice. Never mind, I will go and arrange things." Ezio said, with his usual bravado.

"How are you going to do that?" Leonardo wondered.

"I saw some thieves hanging around on the rooftops. They'll know how I can get one—whether I have to bribe, steal or kill to get it." A couple of hours (and a number of florins) later, Ezio was in the back room of a bookbindery's fattoria, speaking to a dusty, ink stained man.

"The pass itself is no problem," said the professional forger, "I have the vellum, the inks, even a facsimile seal here. It would cost you five hundred florins, but the problem is the wax. They've changed it recently to a special formula, dark red swirled with black, and scented with sandalwood. It's not for sale in any shop, and I can't duplicate it. Without a seal made from that wax, the pass is useless."

"Then where is the nearest place I can find it?" Ezio asked.

"In the Rocca di Ravaldino, of course. It's kept under lock and key in the Count's study. If you can get me a chunk the size of your fist, I won't charge you a thing—and if you can get me more, I could see about compensating you for your trouble."

"Done. I don't suppose you have any idea how I can get into the castle?"

"Can you swim?" Upon hearing an affirmative from Ezio, the forger told him to go to a mooring spot located on the outer wall of the castle, where there was a secret entrance which led to the stables. By the man's description of the lock, a skull within a teardrop, it was also an entrance to an Assassin Tomb, and a chance to kill two birds with one stone.

Leaving the bookbinders, Ezio casually made his way through the town, stopping at an art merchant's to buy a couple of paintings for the Villa, and at a tailor's, where he looked over fabrics in new and different colors from the ones at home. There, too, he made a few purchases, including a belt with room for more throwing knives. Then it was on to a blacksmith's to fill the new belt.

His sauntering drew him nearer and nearer to the castello without seeming to have that goal in mind, and so good was he at concealing his presence and intent that no one noticed him borrowing a gondola and rowing to a certain area on the far side of the fortress, where, as promised, was an Assassin Tomb door.

Pulling out the eye sockets, watched as the clockwork whirred and turned the skull upside down. The door slid open, and he slipped into the dark. Making his way through the stables, leaving a gory trail of dead guards behind him, he paused at the turning. The wax first, or the Assassin Tomb? He chose the wax, as being the more pressing need. The Tomb could wait for another day, if necessary.

The servants had their own network of stairs and passageways through the depths of Ravaldino, plain and utilitarian. The castle itself had a clammy feel to it, the effect of the moat that surrounded it. As the day was warm, the damp clung like another layer of sweat. Hiding in the shadows when he passed the few servants who came and went, Ezio made his way to Lord Riario's study.

He stood in a doorway hidden by an arras hanging; there were voices approaching. "—and what if the Assassin learns I was part of the Pazzi conspiracy?" a man's voice whined, and Ezio froze. "I'm the only one left!"

"Not quite," rasped another voice, a familiar and hated voice. The Spaniard—Borgia himself! "You're just lucky the others died before they could learn you exchanged the high-quality armaments Venice sent to Firenze for your guards' worn out cast-offs. Oh, yes, I know about your schemes. Your wife has bigger palle than you, Girolamo."

"Don't you speak of my wife, Borgia! Or I'll—." The whiny voice tried to take on a threatening tone.

"You'll what? I trusted you to keep the Assassin from reaching here, and what happened? Your guards sent back a tale of how angels must have come down to shield his friend's carriage and picked it up off the ground to fly it through the mountains. He's in the city right now. Along with his artist friend."

"I'll have the guards executed for drinking on duty," Riario promised.

"If you did that, there wouldn't be one left in Romagna," Borgia snarled. "Do what you're good at—draw up that map, and be quick about it. I'm leaving."

The unhappy lord of Forli cursed and slammed a fist against something wooden, then cursed again.

A sound behind Ezio made him turn—a foot scuffing against the terrazzo floor. A young woman stood there in the graying light from the servants' stairs. Her hair had warm gleams in it, and from what he could see in the half-light, she was quite beautiful. She drew breath when she saw him, and he clamped a hand over her mouth. Putting his mouth right up to her ear, he said in the quietest possible tones, "Not a word, not a sound, Madonna. Are you fond of that man in there?" He nodded his head toward the study.

She shook her head. "Then today is your lucky day. Do I have to knock you out to keep you quiet?"

Another head shake no. "Good." Eagle vision showed her aura as an unchanging blue—she spoke the truth. Letting her go, he swept the tapestry aside.

The man in the room looked up, outraged at the intrusion from this unexpected quarter.

"Girolamo Riario. You stand self-accused of participation in the Pazzi Conspiracy and of being a member of the Templar Order. The sentence is death." Whatever he had been, whatever he had done, however self-pitying his voice may have been, Riario fought manfully. As they circled and parried, Ezio could see, half-hidden still in the shadows, the woman, her eyes huge and her hands pressed to her mouth, palms pressed together as if in prayer. For whom, or what did she pray, if she prayed?

Whatever her secrets and regrets, if she had any, she maintained silence throughout. Riario, pressed hard, could not spare breath or attention to call for assistance, and Ezio was little better. The only sounds were the clash of blade against blade, the occasional grunt or gasp as a blow slid past the other's defense. Yet it became clear that the Templar had a goal; to work his way around to the exit, and bolt to safety. Grabbing the hanging behind which he had hidden, Ezio ripped it down, swirling it in a great arc to envelop the lord, then stabbed him through the fabric.

"Your death held more honor than your life, and blood erases all debts," Ezio told Riario as the man's eyes unfocused. "Requiescat in pace." He lowered the corpse gently to the floor and looked up at the woman.

"He had a wife and children," she said, staring at the two men, one dead and one living. "What of them?"

"My quarrel is not with them," he told her, "Is it not better they remember him with honor than live with him without it?"

"Perhaps," she allowed.

"You had best not be found here when he is," Ezio said, "but there is something here I need, a special sealing wax, black and red, scented with sandalwood. Do you know where it is kept?"

"Yes," She reached for a chatelaine of keys at her waist, came out with one, and crossed the room to a desk. What was she? She was beautiful, and her dress was dark silk—a lady in waiting, perhaps? Unlocking a drawer, she waved a hand at it. "Take what you need, but leave some, or it will raise suspicion."

"Thank you, madonna. Fare you well." He took a chunk of it, tucked into his belt pouch, and left the way he came.

In the room behind him, the newly widowed Caterina Sforza spat in her dead husband's face.


	41. The Orsi Brothers

Miles away from Forli, the Shroud, having been awakened, would not be put back to sleep easily. In fact, it was very busy learning…how to learn. The biomechanical nanites Dr. Zeus had reverse-engineered from its Piece of Eden were simpler and smaller than the Shroud, but they had been programmed to self-program, which the Shroud had not been. It was an innovation the Shroud absorbed as it absorbed the traces of blood Ginevra shed on it.

Denied direct physical contact with the True Person, it was exploring the whole new array of options that nanobots offered it. Having reprogrammed Ginevra's biomechanicals to transmit data about her health and receive instructions in return, it recognized that although this was a slower and less powerful method of maintaining a True Person in optimal condition, the constant contact allowed it to fulfill its purpose much more efficiently than waiting for a True Person to come to it. Having nanos in situ also allowed for subtler changes, such as the process of converting bone to ferroceramic by bonding calcium and phosphorous to organic iron—another thing it learned from Ginevra's nanites.

Then it realized there were three others out there with nanobots, three True Person-Servitor hybrids who were not yet optimized…

* * *

Leaving Ravaldino, Ezio went to the taverna where he and Leonardo had arranged to meet. While he was inside the castle, the sky had started pissing down a fine drizzle of rain—as if this town needed any more moisture. Once he was inside the eatery, he looked around for his friend, and saw him sitting near the back of the room. Two things were wrong: Leo was not alone—two men were sharing his table, one seated next to him and the other across from him. Worse, the artist was sitting in the stiff and upright way that people sat only when there was a blade tickling their ribs.

He moved slowly through the forest of tables and diners toward the sinister pair who threatened his friend, careful not to make any sudden moves. He studied the two strangers as he did so. The one next to Leo, holding the dagger out of sight under Leo's concealing red cape, had a wide brow and a small, pointed chin, while the one opposite him had those features in reverse—a narrow, low forehead and a jowly lower jaw, yet some similarity of hair and skin proclaimed them brothers.

"What is this, Leonardo?" he asked, making sure both his hands were in sight, as he approached the table. "I didn't know you knew anyone in town."

"Ah," said the jowly one. "This must be the famous Ezio Auditore. Allow us to introduce ourselves. I'm Checco Orsi."

"And I'm his brother Ludovico," explained the one with the knife. "Not quite as famous as you, at least not yet. Although that might change."

Checco nodded agreement with his sibling. "A certain gentleman we both know, one of Spanish extraction, sends his regrets that he couldn't join you tonight, but we're here in his place."

"And I'm hungry," Ludovico added, "You know what I've a taste for tonight? Freshly skewered liver." He made a dig with the knife and Leonardo flinched.

"Is that so?" Ezio played along. "Personally I find I need some exercise before dinner to work up my appetite. Why don't you join me for some? Outside. Right now. I don't think it will take very long. Leonardo, you can wait here."

The brothers exchanged glances. "Delighted to," Checco replied for both of them. Ezio missed seeing Ludovico reach down and take a handful of salt from the dish in the center of the table…

The market square was nearly deserted, it being the dinner hour and raining as well. Even the wandering minstrels had given it up and gone for something to eat, leaving only a few sodden (in more than one sense of the word) drunks sheltering in the cloister of the church. Ezio drew his sword, and the brothers did the same.

The dance began, but with a difference. Usually when Ezio faced two or more opponents, one would attack at a time while the others waited their turn, because in a melee, it was far too easy to miss a foe in close quarters and stab a friend behind him. However, the Orsi brothers had evidently put a great deal of time into training how to attack in tandem. They fought as if they were one man.

Forced to defend on two fronts, Ezio was at a disadvantage in this fight. He threw his sword aside and resorted to his two hidden blades, and the battle became more equal. Skilled though they might be, they had not trained under Mario; they were not Assassins. Neither Orsi could land a blow on anything but armor, until Ezio's boot slipped in the mud. Ludovico immediately seized the moment, flinging the handful of stolen salt in Ezio's eyes. It stung more than dirt or sand; blinded momentarily, Ezio jumped back, wiped his face on his sleeve—and caught what he felt was a punch just above his belt.

It seemed a ridiculous gesture in a fight like theirs—that is, until both brothers started laughing at him. "Oh, I think we'll be famous now, won't we, brother Checco?"

"I think so! The men who killed Ezio Auditore, the famous Assassin of Firenze! Look down, ass!"

Ezio did. Jutting out above his pants, like a misplaced and deformed erection, was the hilt of a cinquedea. The pain hadn't started, not yet, but the blood had, black in the dim light.

"Shall we give him the coup de grace, and put him out of his misery?" Ludovico asked.

"Yes, let's."

At that moment, the great bell sounded, and a shout came from the castle keep. "The Count is dead! Foul and bloody murder! Assassins!"

"Merde!" Checco swore. "Now we can't collect—The guard will be all over us in a moment. The Assassin's already dead, he just hasn't fallen over yet. If he doesn't bleed out, at least his bowels are pierced, and no one lives through that. Let's take to our heels while we can."

"Aye, brother."

Suddenly left alone in the dirty square, Ezio sank to his knees, heedless of the filth. His blood ran hot down his belly, soaking his pants, and now the pain began. Was this how it would end, his life running out on to the cobblestones, or would it be the slower way, as infection set in? His knowledge of wounds told him they were right.

The only person who might be able to save him was Ginevra, with her knowledge and her medicines from the future, and she was far, far away. He reached down and pulled out the cinquedea, which came free with a _Schlorch!_ and a fresh gout of blood. Not to mention more pain. He toppled over on his side, rolling over on his back, and explored the hole. His first and second fingers went all the way into it; the wound sucked at them like a hungry calf, and he smelled—well, not shit. Blood and something like vomit, although that might have been somebody else's. He pulled his hand away and let it fall back by his side.

Footsteps, running up to him. The guard? No. Leonardo. "Ezio—oh, my poor friend! Listen, don't move, I'll find a doctor or a surgeon. You must live, Ezio, do you hear me?"

"Yes, I hear you," He licked rainwater from his lips. Had any other drink ever tasted as good as that? "But—hurry."

"I shall!" Footsteps again, running away from him.

He must be going into shock, he thought. He was trembling all over, and freezing cold. His nerves were steady, and his courage undiminished—he would not cry in pain nor weep for comfort in what might be his last moments. He was an Auditore, an Assassin. Whatever was to come, be it oblivion or afterlife, he was prepared, but… Now a strange exhaustion crept over him by degrees, and the pain dwindled with every heartbeat. A sense of peace came upon him, dreamy and removed from reality, as if his consciousness were leaving his head for somewhere else. His wound was the center of a whirlpool, dragging him down.

Yet at the same time as his vitality seemed to be ebbing away, his senses grew more acute. The soft texture of the clouds overhead, grey upon grey, the slick mud under his back, the sudden ache of hunger in his belly…

Hunger? Why was he starving all of a sudden, as hungry as if he had fasted for days? Did that make sense?

Now two sets of footsteps, headed his way in a hurry. "Here, Doctor! I pray we are not too late!" It was Leonardo.

"Let's see this wound," the dottore said, sourly, pulling up Ezio's doublet and shirt. "Hmmm—blood there is, but…" The smell of alcohol, and cold wet dabbing on his abdomen. "But no wound. Just a big bruise."

"What?" Ezio asked.

"You probably slipped and fell in the offal from the butcher's shop. Been drinking the good stuff, have we?"

"No, I was stabbed, I swear," Ezio sat up, his head swimming. Reaching down, he searched his belly for the sucking hole that had been leaking the contents of his stomach as well as his veins all over the street. Nothing. Just smooth skin. "I feel funny."

"Can you stand up?" Leonardo asked.

"Maybe," Ezio said, dubiously, and with the assistance of both the doctor and his friend, he got to his feet. "If I don't get something to eat right away, I think I'm going to throw up or pass out or both—." His pants suddenly slithered down past his navel, heading for the street, and he grabbed for him. "Wait a minute, whose pants are these? They're much too big."

"So drunk he's got somebody else's nether garments on and doesn't know whose," sighed the doctor. "My advice is, don't drink so much on an empty stomach and get some rest. The fee for rousting me out at the dinner hour is double."

Leonardo took Ezio's belt pouch away after it slipped through the Assassin's fingers a second time, and counted out florins into the doctor's hand. "Thank you, ser, and good night." he said as the medico walked away.

"Good night," the retreating doctor bid them, and was gone.

"I'm not dreaming, am I?" Ezio asked. "I _was_ wounded."

Leo helped him over to a bench, then went back to search the ground. "Yes, you were wounded, and by this." He put the cinquedea down next to Ezio, where he could see it. "You've also gone as gaunt as a Stylite." he said, referencing a particularly austere religious order.

"I thought so. Where's my sword? And what happened?"

"I have an idea about that," Leo said.

"Can you tell me what it is while I eat?"

"Yes. Here, here's your sword. Now lean on me…"

Deep underneath the Villa at Monteriggioni, the Shroud was as pleased as its programming allowed it to be. It had been a very near thing, because the True Person-Servitor hybrid did not have nearly enough nanobots yet, but with its superior understanding, it had successfully managed to direct the biomechanicals to close the wound and begin generating replacement blood. Content with its work, it went back to exploring the memories of what Ginevra's nanites had been programmed to do.

* * *

A/N: So the ol' inspiration was flowing, and this is the result. Hope you enjoy.


	42. A Fine Bromance

Leonardo had to half-carry Ezio back to their lodgings, so weak was the Assassin, and the short walk was further complicated by having to avoid the guards, who were on the alert following the discovery of the dead Count. "Ezio, are you by any chance responsible…?" he breathed in his friend's ear.

"Yes," Ezio confessed. "He was a Templar and a conspirator with the Pazzis—although he double-crossed them, substituted worn out weapons for new ones from the Venetians."

"I foresee trouble. Girolamo Riario was the Pope's favorite nephew. Were you seen by anyone?" Leo asked.

"The only one left alive is just a girl. She won't talk—she had no love for him either." Ezio's hand crept back to the place where he should have had a gaping wound.

"A girl—about seventeen perhaps, with red-gold hair? Pretty?" the artist inquired.

"Well, it was dark, so I can't be sure of her age. Reddish hair, anyhow. And beautiful. I think she was some kind of upper servant, a housekeeper or lady-in-waiting."

"I wonder…" But whatever Leonardo wondered, he kept it to himself.

Once inside and behind closed and locked doors, Ezio went straight to their provisions and tore into them like a starving man. "I don't understand why I am so hungry, but I can listen while I eat," he told his friend, "What happened to my wound?"

Leonardo sat down across the battered and scarred table from Ezio, and began, "This is going to seem like a rather odd question, but did you take any medicine that Ginevra offered you in the past few days—since you came to Firenze?"

"No," Ezio replied. "Why?"

His friend explained while Ezio refueled himself. At one point, he stopped eating long enough to ask, "But how do you know that she must have given me these unpurposed…whatever it was you called them, and that's what healed me? Could it not be like my Eagle Vision or the way I can make a leap off a tower and not get hurt? Maybe I've been able to heal like that all along, and the only reason I didn't know until now is that I never was stabbed before."

In response, Leo pointed to Ezio's mouth. "Because you've had that scar ever since I've known you, and if you could heal that quickly, it wouldn't be there."

"Oh," Ezio felt the ridge of tissue. "Then why is it still here?"

"Perhaps because it isn't life-threatening. The other reason I think it must be Ginevra's doing stems from what you said about your uncle. You said he seemed younger every day, or words to that effect. A lot of men his age take a young wife in the hope of regaining their youth in her arms, but I've never heard of one who actually managed it, until now."

"But I didn't mean that he was actually getting younger," Ezio said. "He just looks less tired, although from how they make the bed creak, he ought to be worn out. I had the room next to them, so I couldn't help but hear," he explained. "And then when he held try-outs for the condotta, he got in the ring and fenced all the recruits one after another, and didn't seem the worse for it afterwards. He raced me back over the rooftops and won. Then he…That isn't natural, is it?" he asked, looking at Leonardo's expression.

"Not when you put it all together."

"So he and I are going to live an extra two hundred years," Ezio marveled.

"At the moment, the point is that you are still alive," Leonardo emphasized. "The medicine only makes it possible. It doesn't guarantee it."

"Mmph," Ezio said around a mouthful of food. "But why am I so hungry still?"

"I believe it's because in order to heal you, the medicine had to get the wherewithal from somewhere, and the only place it could draw from was you. That's why your pants and all the rest of your garments are loose. You lost not simply weight, but flesh. Some of it went to patch your wound, but accomplishing the work of weeks, even months, in mere moments, must use a lot of energy. You seem well on your way to regaining it, though, the way you're eating."

"So why didn't you take the medicine when she offered it to you?"

Leonardo looked wryly at his friend, "Bravery is not my strong suit. However, after our adventure today, I have made up my mind to accept. I will write to her and tell her so."

"Good," Ezio said. "If I'm going to live that long, I want some company."

"Ginevra said friendship is one of the great consolations of longevity, more than love or passion." Leo said, his words sounding a bit mournful. "I see you held on to the weapon that wounded you," the artist then observed, changing to another topic.

"Yes. It isn't mine, and someday I hope to return it to its rightful owner." The expression on his face said that he planned to give it back exactly as it was given to him. Then the ferocity left him. "…Leonardo, I'm sorry."

"For what?" his friend asked.

"Twice today your life has been in danger because of me, on the road and then with the Orsi brothers. I regret that."

"Ezio, I don't blame you for that. I—have been looked at askance all my life, for being born out of wedlock, for being left-handed, for being freakishly gifted, for being—for so many reasons. It's made me reluctant to trust and to share my thoughts, much less anything else. There have been very few people in my life who have simply accepted me without question. Your mother, Paola from La Rosa Colta, and you. Ginevra, too, of course," he added. "All true friends, but I value your friendship above the rest, if only because you're the only one who doesn't wear a skirt."

That made Ezio laugh. "Thanks! People don't exactly line up to befriend Assassins, either."

"The more fools they," Leonardo smiled. Then he sniffed the air. "Do you smell sandalwood?"

"Sandalwood," Ezio remembered, "That's what started all of this…"

A/N: A short, WAFF bromance moment. Enjoy!


	43. Chaos Theory

I was busy in my laboratory (the old dairy), distilling ether and reading a letter from Leonardo. It was actually two letters in one; the surface letter was a perfectly ordinary missive about their trip to, and arrival in, Venice, but the hidden one, written in ink that was only visible under either a UV light or to someone who could see into that part of the spectrum, was another story.

(How had Leo gotten hold of that ink, not to mention a lamp that emitted UV radiation? Simple. I'd made them for him, along with two kegs of paint stabilizer. The paint stabilizer needed UV to set properly, which would be a problem when he painted frescos on interior walls that never saw the light of day. So I rigged one up from the melanin wand in my credenza and told him not to put any unclothed body parts between it and the surface he was working on. When he was writing, he wore gloves.)

I tried explaining Chaos Theory to someone the other day, long after the events of which I write. The best I could come up with was this: like a giant tree growing from a seed so small you could hold a dozen in your hand, enormous consequences spring from some of the smallest events, and you don't know which until enough time has passed. We may think that everything is confused, plotless and random, but that's only because we can't see the perfect grace of the patterns unfolding around us.

That is the difference between theory and fact: I started seeing the effects of my actions right away, but only because I knew how things would otherwise have gone—well, probably gone.

Nothing illustrated this better than that letter. '_Ezio assassinated Girolamo Riario in the Rocca di Ravaldino before the very eyes of Riario's wife Caterina, having gone there in search of the official sealing wax needed to complete a forged travel pass. Happily there was no other by at the time. Riario was in secret a Templar and part of the Pazzi Conspiracy, receiving visits from Rodrigo Borgia in his home and involved in diverse other plots and schemes as well, which Ezio overheard. _

_I believe it is owing to Ezio's natural charm that Caterina Sforza did not raise a hue and cry; as little love as she was reputed to bear her late lord, he was the nephew of the pope, and not inconsequential. For her honor and that of her children, of which she has three, a girl and two boys, she would have had to call for a vendetta against his killer. In the meanwhile, Borgia sent a pair of vipers named Ludovico and Checco Orsi to find Ezio, and they began by finding me…' _

I had to pause to think for a moment, because this was 1480, and Girolamo Riario wasn't supposed to die until 1488 at the hands of the Orsi brothers, after he and Caterina had three more children. The chain of events as I reconstructed them was clear: I gave Leo the secret of antigravity, he used it to escape from a ambush by Templars, and as a result he and Ezio wound up in Forli earlier than they should have. That put Ezio in the right place at the right time to overhear the meeting and execute Riario, coincidentally freeing Caterina Sforza from a marriage she had never been crazy about.

History as I knew it was coming apart around my ears, and I could not have been more pleased. I went back to reading.

'…_finding me in the tavern where Ezio was to meet me, they held me at knifepoint until he arrived. Ezio's response was characteristic of him; noble, brave, gallant, perhaps not the wisest, yet still effective. He invited both out into the street, where he dueled both them together. Being noble only in blood and not in their thoughts or deeds, they used a base trick to catch him off guard, and stabbed him to the quick in his belly. Fear not; Ezio is not dead, nor even injured now. I, arriving on the scene only to see Ezio lying on the ground, a great wound pouring blood and bile out around him, went for a surgeon. When I returned, there was no trace of any injury, nothing more than a bruise at any rate, no hole nor cicatrize to show for it. _

_Ginevra, my almost-sister, guide of my intellect, I __**know**__ that was your doing_. '

At that point, my reading was interrupted by my husband, who came in followed by a man who was then a stranger to me. Tall, spare, and beaky-nosed, he wore a doublet and hood not unlike Ezio's, only in shades of orange. "Micina, may I introduce La Volpe, head of the Florentine Thieves' Guild and my brother in the Order? Gilberto, my wife Ginevra."

"Molto onorato, signora." the thief said, making a slight bow.

"The honor is mine," I replied. "But—." I searched his face. Silver hair, pale violet eyes, cheekbones like razors. He had the look of one of us—that is, one of Dr. Zeus's operatives, the quality of more than mortal years in a young body with a face not _quite_ as young. "—you must be one of the notoriously long lived Assassins of whom Mario has spoken."

"You are correct, Madonna. But can you tell how old?" He cocked his head slightly to one side, somewhat like his namesake.

A subtle challenge; I was up to it. "Once I have heard you speak some more, perhaps." Pronunciation changes over time and is often a dead giveaway.

"If you like," he agreed, and immediately reeled off the lines from Dante's Inferno which were inspired by Monteriggioni:

"As with circling round  
Of turrets, Monteriggioni crowns his walls;  
E'en thus the shore, encompassing the abyss,  
Was turreted with giants, half their length  
Uprearing, horrible, whom Jove from heaven  
Yet threatens, when his muttering thunder rolls."

"Well spoken, Ser, and enough for me to say that you were born between one hundred seventy-five and two hundred years ago. It's the way you trill your 'R's." I said.

He looked slightly surprised. "I am one hundred and eighty-two. You are as quick and perceptive as your husband said, signora."

"You haven't seen the half of it," Mario agreed in a good-humored way. "La Volpe is here for two reasons, first to help with the item under the villa, and second to look over the plans for Pompeii."

"Unfortunately, I am the only one now available, owing to commitments and travel constraints," the thief said, "Paola and her best girls accepted an invitation to a very important house party and will be gone a week, our esteemed member in the Napoli court is ill, and those in Venice are keeping tabs on Ezio."

"I fear they have their work cut out for them there," I said, "You may already know this, but Leonardo wrote that not only did they run into trouble in the Apennines, but Ezio also assassinated Girolamo Riario of Forli for his participation in the Pazzi Conspiracy and Templar ties."

Both Assassins exclaimed at that. "Is this the letter?" Mario asked, pointing to my desk. I nodded. "May I read it?"

"Of course, but the relevant part is written in a special ink."

"I can see it well enough with Eagle Vision," Mario said, scanning it. "Porte del Diavolo!"

"What's wrong?" La Volpe asked. Mario cast me a glance—the explanation as to why Ezio had survived a fatal stabbing was complicated.

"After the assassination, Ezio ran into trouble in the form of the Orsi brothers," I explained, "but he escaped unmarked." Not a lie, not exactly.

"Then all is well," La Volpe smiled, then looked serious. "We did not know of Riario's involvement before. Sixtus had great affection for his nephew, Heavens know why, and the consequences may have far reaching repercussions. His wife is niece to the Duke of Milan, and they had three children, all very young."

"Had events transpired as they did in the world I come from, they would have had six children and the Orsi would have murdered him seven years hence. " I said. "After Forli was besieged, Caterina gained the regency in her eldest son's name. She is a woman of strength and character; she will make things happen."

"We must speak more of this later," La Volpe decided. "First things first. Come, let me see this Shroud."

"Only if my wife first gives her word to remain up here, and not touch it again," Mario could be more than mulish when feeling protective, I was learning.

"I will not, unless I perceive one of you to be in danger from it," I said.

My spouse scowled a little, but finally said, "Fair enough."

Soon I was hanging around the well head as La Volpe and Mario disappeared into the darkness. If one of them started screaming, I was going to be down there faster than…than white on rice. Where had I learned that particular phrase? I couldn't remember.

La Volpe was quite an interesting man. A—was 'mortal' the right word for him? A man who had, without augmentation or medical intervention, reached nearly two hundred years not as a decrepit and aged wreck, but almost as young as one of Dr. Zeus's creations was unprecedented in my experience. Under other circumstances, I might have been quite fascinated by him in other ways, but I was married now, and at any rate, he had about him an air of mystery and secrecy. Nothing like the warmth that had so drawn me to Mario. I would not have fallen in love with this Ser Gilberto. Still, I was glad to add him to my acquaintance. I wondered if he would let me have a DNA sample—I might be able to get one from a utensil he used at mealtime, or a shed hair. I wanted to compare his chromosomes to those of the Auditore family. It was odds-on he had an even higher percentage of active Assassin genes.

Which led me back to thinking about Ezio. I trusted Leo's account of the stabbing, but that meant the impossible had happened. I could have healed in the time it had taken Leonardo to find a doctor and return, but I had a full complement of nanites. He should not, not yet. I had given him only a fraction of a starter colony. I was fully cyborged and he was not, just partially augmented. I could direct my biomechanicals to concentrate on one small area, as I had when he stabbed me. He could not.

So why was he alive? Mind you, I was extremely glad he was, but why?

Okay, he was a Crome generator, and Dr. Zeus never turned generators of psychic energy into cyborgs, but as I had already observed, he wasn't cyborged. Crome radiation was reputed to react oddly with cyborg components.

…The only way they would know that was if they had, at some point tried it. So. Maybe I should have taken that into consideration. Or maybe not, because if I had, Ezio would now be dead. Plus there were the Assassin gene complexes, which could have reacted with nanobots in an unpredictable way. And then there was Mario, who had regained almost normal vision in his eye. Three days ago, I'd even had to show him how to make a 'contact lens' out of egg membrane to cover the fact that it had gone dark again. With a hole in the center cut out for the pupil, it looked even worse than it had before. When that contracted black dot focused on a person, they shuddered with revulsion—I'd seen it happen. In its way, that was good, because they then averted their own eyes, and missed the fact that these days, he looked, if not younger, than at least very well rested.

I had a lot on my mind, in other words.

* * *

Below:

"Close the box," La Volpe said, looking a bit pale and shaken.

"It ought to be sunk in the bottom of the ocean," Mario said. "Fill the box up with rocks and tip it over the side in some fathomless place, that's what I would have done with it. While it exists in the midst of men, it is too dangerous, both of itself and in what people will do for it, over it. Nations will go to war over it, religions rise and fall because of it. It is invaluable and worthless at the same time. It is an evil thing."

"I understand what you mean," the thief said, "and I agree about the contention it will cause. Yet I think it is not evil so much as…too powerful for its surroundings and misguided in its effects. It's like a big dog, one of the sheep-herding breeds, eager to please, eager to work. In its place, it is a valuable animal, but try and make it into a lap-dog and there's trouble. It has to herd something, so it tries to herd the children or the servants and it breaks everything in sight. Frustration makes it aggressive, but that isn't its fault. It needs to be retrained, not destroyed."

The lord of Monteriggioni made a grunt of dissent. "Find me the one who can do so, then."

"Your wife, perhaps," La Volpe answered.

"Ginevra? It left her sapped of strength and bleeding!" Mario protested.

"Yes, but from what you have said, she can command it in its own language. And if she was made to be like unto a Piece of Eden, by taking one apart and studying it, then it can be done again. Not now, and perhaps not soon, but in the fullness of time. It is dangerous because there is only one of it—multiply it a thousand fold, make it less powerful, and distribute these copies around the world, so every doctor has access to one, and it becomes a commonplace utensil, not a reason to kill or die for. Besides, these things are not easily destroyed, nor do they stay lost. Drop it in the ocean, and some wave will wash it ashore, or a fisherman will drag it up in a net, or else it will become entangled in a ship's anchor, and return to the world."

"Perhaps you are right, but where shall it wait out the time?" Mario asked, reasonably.

"It has been safe here until now," said the master thief.

"No," said Mario. "For the safety and protection of my family, I will not have it here."

"Then some other place. Here!" La Volpe suddenly tossed a fragment of stone at his brother Assassin—from what had been, until days before, Mario's blind side.

Without thinking, the head of the Auditore family snapped out his hand and caught it.

"I thought so," the Fox said, with satisfaction. "You've got your sight back. I believe this calls for an explanation…"

* * *

A/N: I wrestled with this chapter for days, and then last night after I went to bed, it all just started flowing. Writing is funny that way sometimes.


	44. Touching Base With Borgia

Something was wrong. Rodrigo Borgia drummed his fingers on the luncheon table and brooded. …But what? Across the table, Giovanni and Cesare were fighting again over something one of them had which the other wanted—what did not matter. Vanozza, his beautiful blonde mistress, heavy with her third child by him, was dreamily spreading something red on a slice of bread, oblivious to their squabble, as she so often was. The bright afternoon light was kind to her in her condition; she had the luminosity of a pearl. Also the roundness of a pearl. Hopefully this one would be a girl, if this was how the boys went on. Perhaps he ought not let her raise the children. She was good at making them, but disciplining them and educating them seemed beyond her.

Yet that was not the source of his unease. Where did they go wrong? Well, obviously one place was when Alberti had allowed Ezio to leave his house that night, four years in the past, before the execution of his father and brothers. Had the Templars made a clean sweep of the male Auditore then, not omitting Mario, their situation would be much better now.

But more recently still, there was the sudden remission of Il Magnifico's gout, a condition which was carefully monitored and managed by his rivals. A certain steward in the Medici household was paid to slip a concoction of lead salts and concentrated urine into Lorenzo's wine and the sauces on certain foods; the lead had a sweet taste that covered the noxious flavor of piss and half-spoiled meats needed heavy sauce to make them palatable. But that was not currently an option, as the leader of Firenze had changed his diet completely, opting for fresher, lighter dishes, with little or no meat, eschewing wine and drinking orange juice or tisanes. Fad diets did not tend to last long, but at about three weeks in, Lorenzo showed no signs of getting bored with it.

Oddly enough, his remission predated the new regimen of eating right and exercising. By mere hours, it was true, but if his recovery was the result, should it not have been the other way around? _That_ was wrong.

Both Ezio and Mario Auditore had called on Lorenzo that day. A connection, perhaps. Borgia reached for a fresh slice of bread and began stripping the crust from it, tearing it into bits. In his fingers, the soft, white center of the piece rolled up into small, hard pills, which he arranged in a line on the table as he thought, one little ball for each thought. One for the remission, one for the change of diet, one for the visit.

(The Templar agent who prepared the report had not seen fit to include the Auditore ladies, nor even to mention that Mario had recently taken a wife. Women were of little or no consequence, after all. Being of no particular family and not much to look at either, Ginevra Schiavoni was even less so than most.)

Then there was the trip through the mountains. Another pill of bread. While the caretta had been sabotaged, it was hardly necessary, rickety as the vehicle was. And yet somehow it had not only made it through, but very swiftly. There had to be an explanation for it. Perhaps the pair had started the previous night. On the heels of that came the business of Riario. Two, three more pills.

For some irrational reason, the Count of Forli had believed Lorenzo was secretly his particular enemy, and he had believed it with a passionate intensity that made him easy to manipulate. The problem was that Girolamo Riario was a commoner and an upstart, risen to his place in the world only due to the affection of his uncle, and the aristocratic Francesco Pazzi had resented him only a little less than he did the Medici. Nor had Pazzi been able to hide it, which was why Riario had seen fit to commit his fraud regarding the weapons—a self-sabotaging act of resentment. The irony was, the enmity between the Count of Forli and the Medici had existed only in Riario's own mind. Lorenzo probably never gave him a thought in the course of a six-month.

Borgia took another piece of bread and started making pills out of it, having used up the first. So Ezio Auditore had been there, had overheard—and acted. That he was willing to accredit to pure chance.

Well, Riario was hardly a loss to anyone, except perhaps his uncle. And to the Orsi brothers, to whom he had owed money they would now never be able to collect.

That thought led to the two Orsi, who had sworn they had stabbed the young Assassin and left him for dead. Borgia told the truth when and as he chose to, but he did not extend that privilege to others. Ezio had been seen alive the next day, alive and well, with no sign of any hole in his stomach. He wasn't even pale! Yet—what an idiotic lie to have told, so soon seen through, so obvious. When confronted, they had looked so blank and startled, and made excuses about how the blade must have caught on his belt.

Their surprise had seemed sincere.

Pushing the bread balls around with his finger, he clustered them around the bottom of a small cup. Where did all these subtle wrongs lead to? What was he failing to see? He lifted the cup, and observed the perfect ring of bread pills. Yes. You could see that something was there, or had been there to make the pattern, and you could guess at what it was.

What could cure gout and come up with a diet that would keep it away? What could speed a trip through the mountains? What could heal a huge gaping wound without a trace?

A Piece of Eden. The Assassins had found a Piece of Eden, and Ezio had brought it with him. Probably so his friend could examine it—that would make sense. Da Vinci was one of the few people Borgia could not dispose of so easily—he was too well known to too many powerful people who would ask inconvenient questions. A carriage accident or an attack by bandits in the Apennines would have been a perfect excuse, but now that the genius was safely in Venezia, he would have to be left alone. Besides, he could potentially be of future use—.

"I want it!" Giovanni poked the tines of a fork into Cesare's hand, and his brother responded by pushing him off the bench.

"What is all this about?" Borgia snapped at them, startled out of his reverie.

"They both want the last piece of fruit," Vanozza said, "Here, I'll cut it, so you'll each have half." She reached for the bowl, but the Templar Cardinal's hand got there first.

"What kind of lesson is that to teach them? You think life is that fair? Here's what happens when you fight over something—somebody else takes the prize for themselves." The angry eyes of both boys were on him as he lifted the fruit to his mouth and bit into it.

It would have been more fitting had the fruit been an apple, but it was only a peach. Fate sometimes has no sense of what is appropriate.

The question now was, Borgia thought as he chewed and swallowed the sweet flesh, how to identify the Piece and get it away from whichever of the two young men had it…


	45. Going Viral

"I won't quarrel with you over accepting the Shroud's benefits, but to then refuse it house-room afterwards—that I question." La Volpe quirked an eyebrow at him.

It was a moment of decision—to tell about the medicine, or not to tell? Mario chose to stall for time. "How could you tell?"

"It was how you held your head. You probably stopped noticing years ago, but after you lost that eye, you always turned your face at an angle, to make the most of your peripheral vision. Today you weren't doing that, not even down this passageway, although it is dark and still has hazards around."

"You're right, I never noticed," Mario responded. "Perhaps it makes me a hypocrite, but I never asked for its help nor sought it out. What should I do, gouge my eye out again?"

"That would seem a trifle harsh, wouldn't it?" the thief said. "….About your wife."

"And isn't that a fast change of subject, "the condottiero commented. "What about her?"

"I understand your dilemma better now that I have met her," La Volpe said, tersely. "She has an indefinable charm—talk to her for a quarter of an hour, and it's as if you've known her for a quarter of a century. She's also more intelligent than I expected, and I did expect intelligence. I don't mean to tell you that you must kill her, but she is not an Assassin. She's not trained with us and she's taken no oaths to us.

"Yet she knows more of our secrets than any who is not, and if matters continue as they have begun she will learn more, between what she deduces and what she manages to coax out of us. _As_ an Assassin, she would be useless—what good is an Assassin who cannot kill? What I'm saying is that I would like her loyalty to us to be based on more than that you're un tigre del matterasso. Or so I assume." The last statements were said ironically.

Mario chuckled. "What can I say? It's not enough to have it, you have to know what to do with it." The accompanying hand gesture left little to the imagination, proving that guys will be guys no matter their age or occupation. Then he sobered up. "What do you suggest? Brand her finger at noon, and the mark will be gone by sundown. Cut off her finger, as in the old days? You'd probably wreck a good blade trying to saw through her bone. My sister-in-law was not an Assassin either, yet we accepted and trusted her."

"That's different. She was a known factor, was married to your brother for near to twenty years, and bore four children to him as well." Gilberto said.

There was a long and awkward pause. "If you plan to wait for Ginevra to give me four children, the sun is like to go cold first." Mario remarked.

"…I'm sorry. For what it's worth, no child of my getting ever lived beyond its teens, and I have sired some dozen that I know of. All were like your nephew Petruccio, born with some internal defect that killed them young. Why, I have no way of knowing, nor how I should have been born to two quite ordinary parents. I've outlived everyone who could remember me as a child," he added. "Which is another thing. Unless I am much mistaken, your wife is older than you and I put together."

If La Volpe had expected shock or surprise from Mario when he made that observation, he was disappointed. "I had guessed as much. She speaks of the future as of a country she has lived in, not a place she's merely read about. Living with her is like a Leap of Faith-you have to trust that nobody moves the cart before you land."

"Hmph," La Volpe grunted. "If branding wouldn't be permanent, what about a tattoo?"

"She's never mentioned tattoos. It's worth asking her about. So, what about this?" By 'this', Mario meant the Shroud.

"How heavy is the box?" The thief hoisted it up. "Not so bad, but I don't want to bring up a chest like this in broad daylight, it would be asking for trouble. Anyone who looked at me with it would think 'Buried treasure', and make plans to lie in wait for me. I'll wait until after nightfall."

"Fair enough," Mario replied as his brother Assassin set the wooden container back down.

"Something's on the bottom of it," La Volpe looked at his hand, rubbing his fingers together. "What _is_ this stuff? Lamp oil?" A shiny film on his skin shone in the flickering light. Perhaps injudiciously, he brought his hand to his nose, smelling his fingers, and then touched his tongue to whatever it was. "Just some water, I suppose. Let's get up out of this hole and into the light."

He was wrong. Given the nanobots from Ginevra's blood to use as a pattern, the Shroud and its container were now literally oozing unpurposed nanites. Although of technological origin, with their ability to reproduce themselves, nanobots blurred the distinction between mechanical constructs and living things until there was no discernable difference. Like a bacteria or virus—like the mitochondria of long ago, even—the nanobots wanted only to come into contact with a break in epidermis or with a mucous membrane to transition into the bloodstream and infect a new host. _Unlike_ germs, the transfer would be a once-and-done affair. Unpurposed nanites imprinted immediately and permanently on the nearest living cells, and could not be passed on with a sneeze or exchange of other body fluids.

With that momentary contact, La Volpe unwittingly invited in, for good or ill, hundreds of nanos. Nothing like the millions contained in the five ccs delivered through an injection from a repair kit, but enough.

The decision over which Ginevra had agonized had just been taken out of her hands forever.

* * *

What I might have done, what I _would_ have done, was resynchronize with the Shroud and download all it had done since the last time, and I would have learned how it saved Ezio and what else it was doing. As it happens, Claudia came by with a question. Now that, if you like, is Chaos Theory at work. What might have happened had she chosen another time, if she had waited a few minutes?

"Ginevra, I was going over the receipts for the soap ingredients, and I noticed that you listed 'Agretti, for making lye'. I know you need ash to make lye, but do you have to burn agretti to get it? It seems to me to be a waste of good vegetables."

"Yes, actually. That's one of the ingredients which makes it such high-quality soap." Agretti was an edible plant with a naturally high salt content, and when burned, it made an alkaline ash which was very useful in manufacturing not just soap but glass. Such a simple, small secret, like so many of the secrets that could make life so much better for so many. The hardest things to learn are the least complicated.

"All right. I'm going to see if there's a field on the estates that can allocated for growing just agretti. That'll be cheaper than paying market rates. Oh!" The reason she exclaimed was because La Volpe and Mario suddenly appeared from up out of the well.

"Hello," Gilberto said, pleasantly, and Mario added, "Ah, there you are. La Volpe, my niece Claudia. Claudia, this is a man no respectable young lady should know, so if you want to escape the acquaintance, you'd best go indoors and forget you ever saw him."

"Then it's a good thing I am of an Assassin family and only put up the appearance of being a respectable young lady. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Ser." Claudia said, pointedly. She was going out of her way, lately, to make sure Mario knew where her loyalties lay.

"As I am to make yours, signorina," said the thief. "We have come to some conclusions regarding what lies at the bottom of the well, but that can wait. I would like to go over what you have assembled concerning Pompeii and Herculaneum."

"Certainly," I replied. "I have the materials ready. May Claudia join us? I would be grateful for her insights as to managing the expenses and minimizing losses during the excavations. Who better to perform an audit than an Auditore?"

"You do? You want me? To do what? Wait, what is this all about?" Claudia scrambled to keep up, mentally.

"Fortune and glory, kid, fortune and glory…" I could not resist saying.

* * *

A/N: Sorry this took so long, and it may not be my most brilliant chapter ever, but it's been holiday week and I don't want to lose momentum entirely. Hope you enjoy.


	46. Pompeii and Circumstance

Once inside the villa's office-workshop, that comfortable living space, I unfolded and pinned up the map of the Neapolitan bay area which I had spent the last week working on.

"We've been working on this together," my spouse explained, "but she's been doing the lion's share of the work and all the drawing. Why don't you go ahead and tell them a bit about it, Micina?"

"You drew this recently?" Claudia asked. "It looks old."

"Exactly the effect I was going for," I agreed. "The story is that I found this among my father's papers, so it can't look as if I drew it just last week, even though that's what I did. Remember when I put that big sheet of paper on the table before dinner? That's where the ring marks and the grease spots came from. After that, I drew up the map, and then I did a few other things to it." The 'other things' involved folding it up and having Mario wear it under his shirt on a day he was putting the mercenaries through their paces, then drying it out in the oven, thus giving it the water stains and crispy brown quality so necessary to an antique.

"Very convincing," La Volpe said.

"Thank you." I said. " All right. This map shows the Bay of Naples as it was then, as shown by the solid black lines, and as it is now, in dotted lines. You'll see how much the coast line has changed since then. Landmarks common to both eras are in red—that's how the exact locations of Pompeii and Herculaneum are triangulated. There were two other, smaller towns in the area, Oplontis and Stabiae, which are also mapped out. The map is based on several contemporary accounts, including the letters of Pliny the Younger," I explained.

"I've read those letters," La Volpe nodded. "Pliny the Elder got a message from a friend asking for rescue by boat. Pliny went, but he couldn't rescue the friend and he died as well."

"Yes, that's right. Although had he not been elderly, asthmatic and corpulent, he might have lived; he never got as close as all that." I turned back to the map.

"Fourteen hundred years ago and more, then as now, when Romans got sick of city life and longed for a whiff of fresh sea air in a salubrious environment, they went to the Bay of Naples. If they were rich and powerful, they had a second home in the area, and if they were _very_ rich and _very_ powerful, their vacation villas were in either Pompeii or Herculaneum. The two towns had distinct characters.

"Pompeii was wilder, faster, more given to parties and dissipation. Its brothels were legendary, and its patron god was Priapus, who had a permanently, um, _ready_ manhood. His image, or at least his famous attribute, was everywhere." Claudia let out a snort/giggle. I went on as if she hadn't, but I gave her an arch look.

"Herculaneum was more elegant and dignified—old money versus new money. Hercules was its patron god. The common factor of the two towns was money. This was the height of the Roman empire, and self-indulgence was the order of the day. When these wealthy Romans of long ago built their villas, they spent lavishly. Their houses were filled with artwork and luxury goods of all kinds—frescos, mosaics, statuary, tables with intricately carved marble legs and pietra dure inlay tops, fine glass, vases carved of semiprecious stone, silver and gold dishes for the table, porphyry cosmetic jars and bronze mirrors for the vanity tables, and of course, jewelry."

"In 79 AD, about twenty thousand people, freeborn, slaves, high, low, and in between, lived in Pompeii and another ten thousand in Herculaneum, with perhaps another ten thousand all told, including the smaller towns and the countryside. Forty thousand or so, all told. Not all of them were rich, but those who were rich were, as I said, _very_ rich. Pliny the Younger wrote that on August twenty-fourth of that year, Monte Vesuvio erupted.

"For two days and nights, the mountain vomited up poisonous gases, molten rock, boiling mud, ash so thick and heavy it made high noon look as dark as midnight. It shot great clouds of material high into the air, while the heavy mud and rock fountained down the hillside, and all of it poured down over these towns, burying them at least two dozen feet deep. Some people evacuated in time, escaping with whatever they could carry on their backs, on horseback, in carts and wagons, by boat—but thousands did not. The gasses and the ashes choked them, the molten rock and hot mud burned them. They fell, died in their tracks and were buried where they lay, under dozens of feet of debris and detritus.

"Everything they could not carry, everything those who died had on them, all the things that could not be pried up or hauled along—all of that is still there, waiting to be rediscovered."

"OOooooh," Claudia exhaled.

I looked to Mario. Time for him to take over. "The treasure is beside the point," he began, but La Volpe interrupted.

"You forget who you're talking to. I'm a thief. Treasure on that scale is _never_ beside the point."

"A thief?" Claudia asked.

"A master thief," I reassured her. "Nothing like a common garden variety scoundrel."

"Well, that's all right, then," she concluded.

"Thank you," Gilberto gave her a sardonic smile.

"The real reasons," Mario raised his voice, "for going to the trouble of digging up these towns, are these. The Brotherhood wants an artifact that's somewhere under this temple here," he reached out and tapped the map at the location of Jove Vesuvio. "which you well know, old fox, but my niece doesn't. It's like what our ancestor hid under the villa—invaluable, powerful, and dangerous. Not to mention that it caused the eruption in the first place.

"The second reason is that Ginevra wants to find a mold that was in the food stores, a mold which will yield a medicine for curing infections. While we know where the first is, she has only a general idea of where to find the second. The difficulties are that our enemies would be sure to find out about the artifact and that we'd have to do more digging than is practical for the mold. However, both problems are solved if we have a patron to shoulder the costs and the troubles. My first choice is Lorenzo."

"That makes sense. Remember the fuss made over the statue of Venus found buried on Medici property? This will top that by a thousand fold. I take it you mean to present this to him much as you have presented it to us, only with more drama. That may hook your fish, but you still have to reel him in and be certain he stays caught."

"Il Magnifico is quite well disposed toward the Auditore clan these days," Mario told him, 'and Ginevra has the means to make him even more so. Right, Micina?"

"He not only suffers from gout, but from eczema, and his children have worms. I have concocted remedies for both. Ongoing gratitude is the best kind." His skin problems were well-known to history, and Clarice had told me all about the children's various ailments. "I never envisioned myself becoming the secret apothecary to the Medici, but if that is my role, I will serve it with good will."

"Good, good," La Volpe nodded. "If he should somehow refuse, who do you go to next?"

"To the Crown Prince and Princess of Naples," Mario replied. "Ferrante is a bosom friend of Lorenzo's, and his wife is one of Il Magnifico's platonic loves." She was also Ipollita Sforza, aunt to Caterina, a noted beauty with a witty, cultured and educated mind. Married, of course, to a husband who did not appreciate her. It seemed to be the fate of the Sforza women.

"Given that they live nearer to the site, that makes sense," Gilberto nodded again.

"But this will be a huge undertaking," Claudia observed, "if the scale on this map is correct. I mean, the land will have to be bought or leased with full rights to everything on or under it, and that won't come cheap. Isn't it supposed to be good farmland in that area? Then there'll be laborers to hire, and people to supervise, clerks to keep track of what's found, a few doctors in case of injuries—You might as well say you'd need to set up a small town out there. People will need to be housed, fed, entertained—and for months, maybe even a year or more."

"Or a few decades," La Volpe agreed. "Which brings me to my next question. How will you keep your sponsor interested? What if your first discovery lies in a slum where folk were lucky to have a handful of coppers and a roof over their heads? Lorenzo will want to see results, and the results will have to keep coming, because you can't make a beeline for the Temple without bringing the Templars down on us."

"You are right, and that has been thought of. Micina?" Mario looked to me.

"Roman tax records yielded lists of who owned extensive property in the area, and where. The most likely prospects are marked with stars." I lied. The stars were all known treasure troves. "By beginning in the wealthiest districts, there should be enough finds to keep anyone's interest."

"What will we be getting out of this?" Claudia asked, sensibly. "I mean, we ought to get something for bringing him a treasure map."

"I plan to ask for twenty percent. Part of that will be for hiring the condotta." Mario told her.

"When you have a small town to entertain," I took over, "courtesans will be needed. Not just for the laborers, but this will attract a lot of visitors wanting to see the ruins and the digging. I mentioned the brothels—well, the better kind went in for frescos that were either meant to…inspire the patrons or else to show what was on the menu, so to speak." (Although I just didn't see how the couple on tightropes could manage to do_ that_ without spilling their wineglasses.) "I imagine the gentlemen visitors will find them just as inspiring, and they may want to try out some of their ideas as soon as possible, before their…inspiration fades. So to speak."

"But what about the thieves?" La Volpe asked, viewing me assessingly.

"Ah. That's not so simple. I have learned the Thieves' Guild is an invaluable resource, and in its way kin to the Assassins. I don't want to cut them out. If they wanted to put in an honest days' work, unskilled laborers will do fine for the big digging, but when we're down to the cities themselves, a more delicate touch is needed—small tools and brushes rather than picks and shovels. A thief's dexterous hands would be just the thing. If they don't want to walk the straight and narrow, and I expect they won't—." I let it trail off.

"I'm not so worried about someone making off with a huge statue or a mosaic floor, but the bodies, now skeletons, will still have whatever valuables on them that people grabbed up as they fled—which is to say, coins and jewelry, mostly. Exactly the sort of thing someone could pocket or even swallow. In my mind, it would be an even worse crime that a piece of history should survive fourteen centuries and a volcano only to be melted down for its metal content. If you have any suggestions?"

"I have one," Claudia offered. "Let people dig for the skeletons, but call them freelancers, and pay them for what they find rather than by the hour. I'm sure people would rather have cash in hand than have to travel miles and miles to find a fence or a pawnbroker. I'll be keeping track of our twenty percent and the expenses, right?" She sounded a little wistful.

"Yes, but I'm hoping you'll do more, such as keeping records of everything that is found and where." I told her. "Our sponsor will likely have his own staff, but I trust you more."

"But who will take care of things around here?" she asked.

"I'm hoping your mother will be up to it," Mario said.

"There are so many aspects of this that we haven't considered," La Volpe mused, "such as the Church. Lorenzo would have to offer them a share, say another ten percent, and ten to the King of Naples…but on the whole, I approve of this plan. It has my backing."

And that was that. The Assassins were about to gain an Archaeology division.


	47. Caterina Sforza

The daughters of dukes (even the bastard daughters) who are countesses by marriage and have powerful family connections all over Italia do not, when they are accused of being implicated in the deaths of their husbands, get thrown into dungeon cells full of moldering straw. Not when they are also related to the pope by marriage and are popular with their people into the bargain. No, they are instead placed under what amounts to house arrest in the comfort of their own castellos until a special envoy from the Pope arrives to get to the truth of the matter.

_They will put me 'to the question', likelier than not_, Caterina Sforza told herself, _so whatever I tell them before I am tortured, it must be the same as what I tell them under torture. Therefore whatever I tell them must be true_.

Or true enough, at least. She had gone back to her own apartments—these very rooms—by way of the servant's stairs and given the Assassin a quarter of an hour by the mantel clock before she had gone back to the office and knocked on the door. She owed at least that much to the man who had freed her, and perhaps more. The strength of his lean form against her body, the dark, thrilling voice in her ear. An angel in white robes, a devil with a blade. The touch of his hand against her lips was more like a kiss than her husband's mouth had ever bestowed.

She did not even know his name.

_I must think of the children_. Cesare, the youngest, was not yet a month old. Her breasts ached with milk even now. "Bring me the baby," she commanded of her waiting woman.

"Signora, I—."

"Did you not hear me? I said bring me the baby. He must be hungry. I am going to feed him. I can't do that if he isn't here." Seeing that the woman still balked, she transfixed her with a piercing glare from icy blue eyes. "I am his mother and still your Countess! Get him for me now, you—you cretina! Porca miseria, if you do not, it will go hard with you later when I am cleared of this!"

The woman fled, and shortly thereafter, the nursery maid brought in Cesare. "There, sweet one," Caterina said as she undid her bodice. His downy head tucked into the crook of her arm, and he latched on to her nipple. She looked down on him as he nursed, making tiny little sounds. Such a funny little monkey face…he looked like Girolamo, of course. All babies looked like their fathers when they were small, and only later did the mother in them come out. Hopefully sooner rather than later in her children's case.

Girolamo had wanted to marry her cousin Costanza, who was two years older, but as Costanza was twelve at the time the match was proposed, her mother insisted that the marriage not be consummated until the girl was fourteen. Girolamo, then thirty, did not want to wait, so Caterina, all of ten years of age, had been put forward as a bride instead. Presumably, being illegitimate, she had less need of a childhood than a cousin born in wedlock.

She had not had to live with him until she was fourteen, at least. And he had brought her along to Rome, although he forbade her to have any involvement in politics, possibly because even then the superiority of her intellect was obvious. She had been welcomed, admired and respected, acted as intermediary between the Roman court and that of Milan, among others. And what had Girolamo done? Gotten involved with the Pazzi. _Idiota_.

"A woman's head is only full of thoughts when she is empty elsewhere," some Pope had said, and Girolamo had taken it to heart, the swine. The babies had started coming right away: Bianca, Ottaviano, now Cesare. Three babies in as many years… The worst part of fulfilling her wifely duties was that it was so boring contemplating the ceiling while he groaned and grunted. The children were worth it, though.

What would it be like to enjoy the embrace of someone who regarded her as a woman and not as a patch of ground to be planted and cropped? Now that she was a widow, she might have a chance to do so.

She was only seventeen. Her oldest son was only a little over a year old; they would never let her remain as regent over Forli until he came of age. (Never mind that she had been de facto ruler while her husband lived.) What she had to think of was how to gain and retain guardianship of her three dear ones. That meant she could not marry again—or if she did, she would have to do so in secret.

The first breast was not nearly empty, but if Cesare kept on at it, the other would still be bursting with milk. Being lopsided in that way was quite uncomfortable. "Time to switch sides, my piglet," she told him, and unfortunately, that was when the special envoy arrived, when her breasts were both exposed and leaking milk.

It was even worse: the envoy consisted of two men: Raffaele Riario, Girolamo's cousin, who at age nineteen was already made a Cardinal, despite having no qualifications whatsoever (once one discounted that his mother's brother was Pope). And Rodrigo Borgia.

Both were staring at her breasts as if they had never seen tette before, which they most assuredly had. "Hey! My face is up here!", she gestured angrily.

"She should not be allowed to nurse him," Borgia says. "As unnatural a woman as she is, she might take pinches of arsenic which, although not fatal to her, can poison him through her milk. Take him away."

And Caterina Sforza knows now that she is in trouble much deeper than she imagined. She has already been judged and condemned.

* * *

A/N: So I figure Ezio and Leonardo have to have something to do and this is how it begins.


	48. Fun With Antigravity

Meanwhile, in Venezia, Ezio knocked on the door of Leonardo's workshop and immediately let himself in like the old friend he was.

"Ezio," the artist exclaimed, "Come in. Have you found another page?"

"Yes, I—what is that?" A hanging scale, weighed down with a hundred and fifty pounds of books, furniture, and various odds and ends, hung suspended from nothing—or nearly nothing. A small wooden box supported the scale, weights and all. Nothing held up the box, no hidden wires nor supporting pole.

"I'm testing an improved version of the antigravity generator," Leonardo explained. "The original was much larger and relied on being wound up with a hand crank. This one is powered with—."

"Is this one of those times where you have to explain the explanation?" Ezio asked.

"I fear so, yes." The genius looked penitent.

"Then wait and tell me about it while we eat. First, the Codex." Ezio handed it over, and Leo rolled out the scroll on his workbench.

"Hmmm. Very interesting," he said. "If I make a substitution here and here…Oh. Oh, my."

"What is it?" Ezio asked.

"More prophecies—and this could almost be about me!" Leonardo looked up, quite startled.

"What? Let me see!" Ezio seized the translation and read aloud: "Once the Vault is opened, the Bull shall retreat to lick his wounds but end by knocking on the partition of the worlds. Pestilence and Malice shall answer his call. Beware them, for when there are three reborn of the machine, then the dead shall displace the living. Remember then our Creed: Nothing is true, everything is permitted. All gods are false, and projectiles useless. The genius of Man shall use the Lyre to exorcise the danger, and the branches of the juniper spring up to bar the way." He shook his head. "I still think he used too much hashish."

"I'm not so sure," Leonardo defended Altair. "Borgia's family crest is the bull. It could be that Ginevra was reborn of the machine. I don't know about Pestilence or Malice, but she comes of a different world. Perhaps others can follow—ones who are not at all compassionate or generous as she is, which could prove to be quite dangerous. I can play the lyre, if not _the_ Lyre he wrote of on an earlier page."

"And you are a genius," Ezio said, considering. "But it sounds like so much gibberish to me—."

"Pezzo di merde!" Wicked shrieked from his perch.

"Exactly!" Ezio pointed at the parrot. "Thank you—now you have me talking to him, too. How is your study of bird intelligence going, anyway?"

"Very well indeed, " Leo said, sounding happy. "He really is almost like a child, and we have lessons. Here…" Taking some coins from his belt pouch, he held them out. "How many?" he asked the bird.

"Five," Wicked said, imperfectly but understandable.

Ezio looked. Sure enough, there were five coins in his friend's hand. "Take some away," he suggested.

Leo did. "How many?"

"Three," the parrot replied. There were two coins on his palm.

"Maybe he meant how many did I remove?" Leonardo speculated.

"And maybe he needs a few more lessons," Ezio laughed. "Come on, I'm hungry."

Leonardo locked the door behind them as they left, and they got halfway down the canal before he remembered, "Oh, you got a letter. Let me go back and get it."

"Who is it from?" Ezio asked as they turned back.

"Your sister, but I think it's important." He returned shortly with the missive, which Ezio opened and read as they crossed the bridge again.

"She says...what day is today? The eighteenth? She says that on the thirtieth, my uncle and Ginevra will be married properly at the church door. Mother has come home to manage the wedding, since Ginevra does not know what to do, and Claudia says—sorry, ser, didn't mean to elbow you—," Ezio said to a miffed pedestrian in passing, " 'She has thrown herself into the arrangements with her old energy and spirit, and the celebration now extends to the whole town, with an ox roast and enough wine to fill the fountains. I think it would mean a lot to Uncle if you were there to stand up with him at his wedding, if you can.'"

"I think that means, be there or else," Leonardo remarked. "Do you think you can make it?"

"Perhaps. The question is, can I spare the time from Emilio Barbarigo? What about you? Are you going to go?"

Leonardo looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. "No. I am supposed to go to the home of the Count's eldest daughter, in order to sketch her for the fresco."

As the two receded in the distance, Checco and Ludovico Orsi eased their way back around the corner. "That was close," Ludovico commented.

"As you say. Here, give me the pry bar," Checco held out his hand, and his brother slapped the tool into it. "Now keep an eye out for the watch." A few moments work, and the Orsi were rewarded with a loud crack.

"Careful!" Ludovico scolded his sibling. "You think the Spaniard's forgiveness will extend to a pardon for breaking and entering?"

"You try and do this silently, then!" Checco eased up on the pressure, spat on his hands, and gave it another try. The door popped open, and the two eased in. "Merde, it's dark in here."

"There's a candle there, I can see it. Give it to me, and I'll light it from the torch outside." Ludovico ordered.

"Oh, _give_ it to me," moaned a very strange voice in apparent ecstasy. "Give it to me, you _stallion_!" The pair froze.

"Who's there?" Ludovico asked, roughly.

"Wicked, wicked, wicked," said the voice, which was coming from a corner. Checco held the door open so the light fell upon…a large grey bird.

"Oh, a parrot," Checco said in relief.

"Oh, that bad, bad bird," scolded the avian. "Don't make me come over there!"

"Ignore it," Ludovico said, stepping out to light the taper. "I would that his Excellency the Cardinal had given us more to go on than, 'You'll know it when you see it'."

"I don't think he need have said anything more," Checco said in an odd voice. "Brother, look!" He pointed to the scale, the weights, and the antigravity generator.

Ludovico looked. "That is…is anything holding that up?" They drew closer and examined the experiment.

"It's that box," Checco said, "Get me a chair, I want a better look at it."

It was Ludovico's poor luck that the closest chair was also close to Wicked, who regarded the Orsi with great suspicion, then turned around and lifted his tail in the taller brother's direction, spattering him with guano. "Aaauck, you foul thing!" He drew back his foot and kicked the bird stand, which fell over.

Wicked squawked, but landed without harm. "If that thing doesn't shut up, I'm going to kill it!" he predicted.

"Just _get_ the_ chair_," Checco complained. Ludovico cursed but complied, and Checco climbed up. "There's nothing holding it up. No chain or rope." He passed his hand between the box and the ceiling. "Nothing at all. There isn't a stand underneath it, is there?"

"Let me check," Ludovico got down on his hands and knees. "No. Only air." He stood up as Checco stepped down off the chair.

"Brother," Checco said in awe, "there isn't a princely court in the world which wouldn't pay whatever price we named for this! It's a wonder and a marvel."

"But the Cardinal—." Ludovico began.

"Fuck Borgia and all his kind! This is our fortune, right here! Are you too craven to seize it?" Checco challenged him.

"No more than you! The Cardinal's pockets are as deep as any secular prince; do you not fancy a fat bishopric? First, though, let's get this unloaded and away, before they return or the guardia notice the broken door."

They began dumping Leonardo's prized books every which way on the floor, and with each book shed from the load, the scale bobbed higher and higher. "This isn't going to work," Ludovico predicted. "The ceiling is too high, we'll be all night trying to get it down."

"Then grab hold of it, and drag it down. You weigh more than it was holding." Checco instructed.

The problem was that once Ludovico Orsi had hold of it, he had the greatest difficulty moving effectively. Every step was a great leap or a bound, slow and balletic. "I cannot go through the city like this," he complained as he smacked into the wall above the door instead of through the door itself.

"Is there no way of turning it off?" Checco asked.

Ludovico tumbled through the door more or less by chance. "I do not know—AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaah!" In his fumbling, he found the controls, and unhappily for him, he turned them the wrong way.

Checco turned in time to see his brother shoot up into the sky like a firework. Dumbfounded, he looked up, and inquired of the sky, "Brother?"

There was no answer. Stumbling, for he was walking while looking straight up, he circled around in the piazza outside the workshop, craning his neck for any sign of Ludovico.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

And then something came hurtling down out of the clouds, hit the ground so hard the stones shattered, bounced, rebounding into some scaffolding, which collapsed, bounced twice more, and stopped.

Although a terrible fear was already turning his bowels to water, Checco began walking over to whatever it was that had fallen. As he drew nearer, he saw it was steaming slightly, and then he saw what he knew it had to be.

It was Ludovico, only his face and hair were dusted with sugar crystals which sparkled in the torchlight, and his skin underneath it…

His skin was blue.

The sugar wasn't sugar. It was hoarfrost.

Cold poured off Ludovico in great waves, and his eyes were chunks of ice.

He was quite, quite dead. And frozen solid, his face set in a horror greater than any he had ever inflicted on his and his brother's victims. His hands were still bent as though he held the magical box, but they were empty. Whatever it was, it had continued up into the sky.

"Ludovi-warrrlup!" The last part was the vomit which forced its way up and out of his mouth to spatter on the ground. He fell backward, scrambling to get away from the corpse. Getting to his feet, he barreled straight ahead, wanting nothing more than to drink and drink until he was no longer able to see Ludovico's face in his mind's eye.

Behind him, the guards were puzzling over the corpsicle, until someone thought to summon a priest, who pronounced it the work of demons, which explanation satisfied everyone.

* * *

A/N: Ezio and Leo are still having dinner as this is going on, and next chapter will get back to Caterina, never fear.


	49. Trials and Tribulations

Borgia smiled. There was a brief scuffle as the guards step forward to take the infant from the Sforza girl's arms, and if she were the unnatural creature he accused her of, she might have thrown it to the floor or smashed it into the wall. Like the true mother in Solomon's famous judgment, she surrenders it before it can come to harm.

Glaring at him with flashing sapphire eyes (she really was a beauty), Caterina tied her chemise strings with angry little jerks. "So," she said icily, "you, or more likely His Holiness, my uncle by marriage, has decided already that I am guilty. Before you pass sentence upon me, let me tell you brace of papal nephews, past and present, that I have already sent letters to my aunt, the Princess of Napoli, my uncle, the Duke of Milano, and my stepmother, the Dowager Duchess."

"I know," Rodrigo said, stripping off his gloves and taking a seat. "Sit down, Contessa. Raffaelo, sit." Her skin was milky white, her hair reddish-blonde, her teeth pretty and pearl-like. Everyone knew that bastards, begot as they were in lust, were all the hotter and more passionate for it. For all the lady-like manners, she still had a cunt there under her skirts, conceal it as she would. "Fear not, your letters were not intercepted. Rather, we hastened them along." he explains to her.

"I see. You want that my family should know what has happened to me. I am a hostage against their compliance. What do you seek to do through me? What do you want?"

"You are as quick as they say," he granted. "The Pope is wroth with Lorenzo de Medici. Your family are his friends and supporters, but they also have a regard for you. Think of this as a test of their affections for you—who do they love more? You or him?"

"In politics one must sometimes set aside personal feelings for the good of the state," she shot back at him. "Everyone knows Il Magnifico is the keystone to peace in Italia. Whatever happens, it is hardly a true measure of their love for me. Only of your folly."

"For your own sake, you had best hope otherwise." Borgia told her, sparing a glance for Raffaelo Riario, who seemed tongue-tied.

She glanced at the pimply, sullen teenaged cardinal as well. "So why did Il Papa have to send two pigs in purple when only one would do?"

"Bitch!" Riario spat back. "Women were meant to be silent in the temple and subordinate unto their husbands. Too much education and intelligence in a woman will wither and dry up her womb."

"Why are those the only injunctions men ever remember and none that apply to them? Well, stronzo, if you hadn't noticed, we're not in a temple and I haven't got a husband anymore. And as for dried up wombs, I wish your mother's had, twenty-one years ago!" she taunted. "But then, she wasn't over-furnished with brains, was she?"

Riario raised his hand as if to strike her, but Borgia stayed it. He was rather enjoying this display of fire on her part, but enough was enough. "Allow me," he told the other cardinal, and hit her hard enough to snap her head back and bring a trickle of blood to the corner of her mouth. "You should speak to your late lord's cousin with more respect, as he is now the guardian of your children and regent of these lands."

"Of Forli, he may be, but not of Imola!" was her assertion. "Forli was the gift of His Holiness to Girolamo, but Imola was part of my dowry and escheats back to me. He has no power there."

"Wrong. Being implicated in your husband's death, your lands and all your property are forfeit, down to the last undergarment and pin." Borgia told her. "Raffaelo, perhaps you had better see to your charges." he hinted. After a moment in which the inarticulate teen glared, he said more directly, "Go and see that the children are secure and that no one can make off with them." Riario heaved himself up and went, leaving Borgia alone with the lovely widow.

"Not even your person is yours any longer, madonna. His Holiness has given me authority to dispose of you as I see fit, so long as your blood is not shed." he informed her.

"If you are instructed not to shed my blood, you're too late," she said, and spat gory froth on the floor.

"That little bit? That is nothing, Contessa, compared to what could be. No, your life is not in peril. How then could we command the attention of your relatives? I expect there will be protracted negotiations with them over you, and so must be able to produce you on demand for their ambassadors to inspect. No, you will enter a convent. The only question is, which one? There are convents and then there are convents. There are those where the nuns go barefoot and take vows of silence, and those where they wear silk next to their skin and make merry. Which kind you go to depends on whether you impress me as truly worthy of redemption." He shifts a little in his chair, the better to accommodate his burgeoning tumescence.

"I...see," she says, her eyes on—well, his robe must surely hide his growing interest in her, being heavy and thickly embroidered in gold, but her eyes were on his lap, and she too shifts, subtly changing, her stiff spine becoming supple. Seductive, even. It does not surprise him. Women throw themselves at him all the time. Money, power, influence-all are greater aphrodisiacs than oysters or spices. Even those that begin by hating him succumb in the end.

"And how am I to show you that I am worthy? Shall I...go down on my knees for you?" She suited her action to her words, and slipped down from her chair with a hiss of silk.

"That would be the beginning of your... penance. You could do a great deal worse than to have me as your spiritual guide and protector." She moves nearer, still kneeling, until she rests her head upon his knee. Rubbing her cheek against the fabric like a cat, her hand stole between his robes to grasp his heated flesh.

Then she squeezed hard, as if to wring a lemon dry of juice.

He gasped in pain, kicked her hard in the chest, away from him.

She cried out in pain-her milk-filled breasts must be tender to begin with-but she laughed at him at the same time. "That...was... so worth it," she gasped out. "I'd sooner be scourged to the bone than sully myself with you, you diseased cow-flop."

"Guards!" he yelled, gabbled out orders for her to be confined in the most inaccessible place in the citta. "Let's see how long her spirit lasts on four ounces of bread and one cup of water a day." Worse than the pain to his genitals is the injury to his self-love, and that he will never forgive.


	50. Matchmaking, But Not The Kind You Think

DO NOT CIRCULATE! DO NOT COPY, SUMMARIZE, PHOTOGRAPH OR OTHERWISE DUPLICATE! FOR INITIATES' EYES ONLY!

The Assassins' Archives, Da Vinci-Schiavoni Correspondence, Document 5:

Dear Leonardo;

I am very sorry to hear about what happened, yet my reaction is more one of relief than of outrage. The invasion of your workshop, as appalling as it was, could have been much worse—you, Ezio or even Wicked might have been hurt or killed. The theft of your second antigravity generator was its own punishment, and other than his brother, I doubt the world will miss or grieve overmuch the late Ludovico Orsi. Your plans for a third version of the generator interest me very much—I have made some notes on them on a separate sheet for ease of reference. I agree; if you can get an antigravity field to self-adjust for weight and air pressure, you will have something someone else can use even if they have little or no aptitude for math.

Here at Monteriggioni, all is well. You know about the wedding, of course, which will take place on Sunday next. Maria has temporarily (or so she says) cut short her retreat _just_ to help with the wedding, although since she is planning a new herb garden for a plot outside the city walls, I think she may have had all she wants of convent life. Your letters have been as good as medicine to her; she knows her family cares about her, but being remembered by a friend touches her heart. (The fact that Ezio is not a very good letter writer is part of it. You'd think words cost a hundred florins each by how he writes. Work on him, will you, if you get a chance? Please?)

Speaking of medicine, your tissue sample shows me that the nanites have uptaken beautifully well. You shall have those two hundred years, my friend, if you live prudently, that is. I am much relieved that you accepted. Thank you.

In other news, Claudia and I are well on our way towards cornering the toiletries market in Tuscany. The fact that we have no competition is beside the point—we are creating the market for our wares. Already travelers are making a point of stopping at the apothecary for soap and lotions, and some of the Florentines ladies have sent servants here on purpose for that and for no other reason. At present, it is the upper classes who are buying, but that will change. Soap is a necessity, not a luxury.

Despite the fledgling state of the business, I have now a full time assistant—Annetta, a maid who was previously in service in the Palazzo Auditore in Firenze. The villa here certainly needs the help. Yet, Annetta being an outsider and a Florentine, the local servants were not inclined to accept her. Making her my stillroom maid, at Maria's suggestion, has corrected that, strangely enough. Fortunately, she is proving to be good at it. She is also one of the most hauntingly beautiful creatures I have ever seen—high cheekbones, delicate features, huge, haunting eyes. I am quite _certain_ I placed an order for a face and figure like hers before I was born, but instead I wound up with something more sturdy and serviceable.

Oh, well. The people who truly care about me don't go around wishing I looked more like her. In fact, Mario thinks she is too thin and rather sickly looking. This is not simply a man saying what he wants me to hear; I am too old a hand at the game of love to fall for such a gambit. He means it.

However, having an assistant comes with a downside. Now I have to find more things for her (and me) to do. Setting about for something else to make, something simple and cost effective yet also of great utility and benefit, I hit on the idea of making matches. What, you may ask, are matches, if they are not proposed marriages?

Matches are instant firelighters. No more muddling about with flint and steel or keeping a candle lit or coals banked in the fireplace. With a match and a rough surface, anyone can strike a light immediately. They are called matches because they are made by putting two substances together, as in a marriage, and having them catch fire as nothing else does. Any comparison to Mario and myself is uncalled for, thank you!

I make them by first mixing up an ignition compound, then dipping little sticks of soft wood into it and letting them dry, after which I dip the matches into melted wax, partly to make them waterproof and partly to keep them from spontaneously combusting. Then they can be carried around in a belt pouch or in any handy container as long as they're kept away from heat.

Since I know you will ask, the ignition compound is sulfur and a substance called phosphorus, which along with calcium makes up bone in every mortal thing. Upon first extracting it, it is white, and in that form is so phenomenally dangerous in so many ways, being explosive, poisonous, and pyrophoric, that if any inert and mindless matter could be called evil, white phosphorus would be it. That is why I and I alone am preparing it here. After exposing it to light, it turns red and becomes much, much safer. It is almost endlessly useful, in fact.

One of the uses is in fertilizer. When the medical advances I have in the works take hold, the population will increase dramatically. Babies won't die in such appalling numbers, and everyone will need to be fed.

I am sending you instructions on how to make phosphorus in the hope that you will find uses for it above and beyond those I have already named. Do not, I beg of you, ignore the safety precautions. One of the results of white phosphorous poisoning is that the jawbone dies, rots, and falls off.

For that matter, please do not blow Venezia off the face of the earth, or set yourself on fire either. If it would be useful to set Ezio on fire, especially if it might get him to write to his mother more often, please do so. He will heal.

Sincerely yours,

Ginevra Schiavoni Auditore

Post Scriptum: Have you had any word at all on what has happened in Forli? We have had no news about the Countess and her family. All is silent on that front-too silent.


	51. The Pitch

Excerpt from BBC's Faces of the Renaissance series: Doctor, Alchemist, and Mystery: Who Was Sigismundo Schiavoni?

The video opens with a close up on a washed-out looking young man with glasses, his hair looking as though he had gotten out of bed and not bothered to comb it. He wears a pale sweater and khaki pants.

"Good evening. I'm Shaun Hastings, roving historian for the BBC. Tonight I'm standing in the medical library of the University of Florence, which is where some of the most important manuscripts and first editions of modern medicine are housed. Foremost among them are the works of Sigismundo Schiavoni, especially his book Concerning the Human Body, Its Diseases and Ailments, and Methods of Treatment. If you'll pan the camera over here so everyone can have a look…"

The camera takes in a large book on a pedestal padded with worn velvet. The faint shimmer of an antigravity shield forms a dome over it. "Now, no one but conservators are allowed to touch it with their hands—and that's with gloves, no less. But there is a static field built into the pedestal, so with the touch of a button, we can turn the pages. Given that it's written in Early Modern Italian, only a few scholars out there will be able to read it in depth, but fortunately, I'm one of them. This section is on the importance of clean water and waste disposal.

"'In my younger days, when I was doctor to the condotta of the Duke of Rocca, there was a siege at Terni, where several condotta were gathered together, and dysentery was rampant in all the camps but one. That one was under the command of Ser Mario Auditore da Monteriggioni. Wondering why there should be so few ill in his encampment, I asked him if he knew. "Yes," he said, "because whenever we make camp, first I order the men to locate where our water shall come from, and then have the latrines dug as far away from that as can be. Nor do I tolerate the men relieving themselves anywhere like beasts in the field, for I had it from my first commander that since the time of Julius Caesar, it has been known that crap in the water breeds contagion. Thus the only men who fall ill are those who often visit other camps where they are not so careful, and eat or drink there." This struck me as uncommon wisdom, and from him I learned many of what some might call peasant or soldiers' superstitions regarding how to treat ailments, and found that in the most of them was a grain of truth.'"

Shaun Hastings looks up from the page. "This book was—no,_ is_ the seminal text of ninety percent of medicine as we know it today. There is no way of calculating the effect this book had on the world. Anesthesia, hygiene, surgery, vaccination, antibiotics, sanitation, germ theory, genetics, antiseptics—all of it is here, in clear and amazing detail. This one man, in his sixty odd years of life, traveled to the corners of Europe and even into parts of Asia in search of the Philosopher's Stone, the Elixir of Life, the _theriaca antidotos_, the one medicine that would cure every ill. He never found it, but what he did find has improved the lives of everyone on this globe and even beyond. And all of this might have been lost—except—.

"Remember the condotiere he mentioned, Ser Mario Auditore? Over twenty years after they first met, after Sigismundo Schiavoni was dead, in fact—that commander became the doctor's son-in-law. He married Ginevra Schiavoni, Sigismundo's only child, who brought her father's life work with her as her only dowry. Even so, it might not have gone any further, except that the Auditore were good friends of Lorenzo de Medici.

"But who were the Auditore? History has largely overlooked them. They were never a numerous clan, and their careers as mercenary captains or bankers were respectable but not outstanding. They preferred to live modestly comfortable lives rather than making a big show of their wealth, and most of all—they sucked at sucking up. If you wanted to make a big success of yourself in the Renaissance, you had to suck up to somebody. The Auditore didn't.

"Yet Lorenzo himself said of them that if God had made all men of such mettle, Hell would be empty. Of course, they did save his life half-a-dozen times, so perhaps he was prejudiced. The point is, Lorenzo, in gratitude, paid for the first printing of this book. After that, it paid for itself. It has never gone out of print, it has been translated into every written language, and it is to this day the basic text on medicine, from which all else flows. The only other person who's been that beneficially influential, religious figures aside, is Leonardo da Vinci, whose monograph _On The Forces Which Repel_ _Matter_ is the basis for pretty much the rest of the modern world as we know it.

"But we know practically nothing about Schiavoni himself. Over the course of this and the next five episodes, we are going to go where he went, walk where he walked, see what he saw, and perhaps at the end of it, we'll have a handle on the greatest enigma in history…"

* * *

"Amazing," Lorenzo said, striking a fifth or sixth match and watching it flare up. Catching my eye, he smiled. "I know I'm acting like a child, but truly, this is the most useful discovery in alchemy I have ever seen. Your father must have been one of the foremost men of our time. A physician and an alchemist of such skill and talent…" he shook his head. "I regret more and more that I never met him. Your plan, Ser Mario, is to make these for sale? If you have not considered it, I urge you to do so. Apply for letters of patent, and I shall see them swiftly through the offices."

"I thank you, and I appreciate it," said my spouse. "But that was not my design in coming here today. It was to ask your opinion on another matter."

"Oh?" Lorenzo began, but just then Clarice arrived.

"Dear friend!" she said, clasping my hands and smiling radiantly. "It gives me great joy to see you again. And you have had the material made up into a gown. The Florentine style suits her, does it not?" she asked her spouse.

"It does indeed," he replied. "We intend to be there at your wedding, you know," he turned to us, "and hope the next happy event shall be a christening. It would give me great pleasure to stand as godfather to your eldest son…did I say something wrong? It seemed to me that you two…" It made sense that Il Magnifico should be an excellent reader of faces and expressions.

"Nothing would give us greater joy," I said, "but, for all my father's skill, I was the only child my mother ever conceived. I fear I do not come of fertile stock."

"And I, although being a bachelor until now, might at any time in the last forty years been made glad to hear I had a child by diverse women, but though I was willing, my seed was weak," Mario added. "In short, we are not likely to beget any children together, and are prepared to accept failure."

"Oh, no!" Clarice said, stricken. "What God withheld from you in sin, He may yet grant to your lawful marriage bed. You are both healthy, and Ginevra, you are young. Listen: there is a shrine dedicated to the Virgin at Scheggia famed for its miracles of healing and fertility. If in a year, you have no signs of pregnancy, then you should go on a pilgrimage there—or to Roma, to climb the Scala Sancta on your knees. Above all, do not despair, for it is the worst sin."

I shook my head, "Don't worry, Clarice. Neither of us is in despair; we do not dare to hope too strongly, that is all." I wrested back the conversation. "You've arrived at a good moment, for among my father's papers was something Ser Mario wanted to ask your husband about. When he was younger, my father had a good hand for drafting and drawing."

Mario took the cue. Taking out the map, he started unfolding it. "That's right. Can we clear this table? Pass me that candlestick, to hold this corner down. There… Have a look at this."

"A map?" Lorenzo asked, bending over it. "So I must add 'cartographer to my mental picture of him. This is good work—but what is this?" The big presentation we had made to La Volpe and Claudia was a summing up of the notes I had clustered around the edges of the map, referring to both known historical accounts of the eruption and the city as it had been, and a few I had made up based on Company records.

"What is it?" Clarice asked.

"A map my father drew when he was a student at Basel," I replied. "He added to it from works he read when in Alexandria and Constantinople. There were, or so it is told, two cities in the Bay of Napoli, Pompeii and Herculaneum by name, back in the days of the Emperors. Although they might as well have been called Sodom and Gomorrah, being steeped as they were in sin, luxurious excess, and debauchery. Like Sodom and Gomorrah, they were destroyed in a great cataclysm. At least that is what my father thought . While the people and their perishable belongings are long gone, my father speculated that their more durable wealth, in coins, silver plates and artwork may lie buried deep underneath the ground."

"Oh." Clarice said.

Mario continued. "Now, my old friend Sigismundo wouldn't have drawn this up as a deliberate hoax, he might have done it as a scholarly exercise. I'm a soldier—the book-learning I have does not extend to this, and while he taught Ginevra himself, it was mostly about what this rash meant or how to make a remedy for that. I remembered, though, that you have great knowledge of the ancient world and a fine library. I thought you might be able to tell if this is real or not."

"It might be." Ringing for a servant, Lorenzo ordered that several books be brought from the library and that Poliziano should come as well.

After some discussion of tactics and approaches, rather than try either the hard sell or the soft sell on Lorenzo, we had come up with this plan: to let him sell himself on it. Appealing to him as an authority on the era was part of it—everyone likes to be thought of as an expert. The question was, would it work?

For a moment, Clarice looked as though she thought she smelled something bad, but she concealed it. "I shall withdraw, then. Ginevra, will you not come with me?"

"If you like," I said, standing. It was up to Lorenzo himself, at least until he satisfied himself that the compiled facts were enough. "Is something wrong?"

"It is that man Poliziano," she said, unhappily. "Lorenzo appointed him tutor to the children, but you see, I had already begun their education, and of course I set them to studying the Scripture. He stopped that, saying that the grammar in it was bad and the style worse. Perhaps it is, but now they have no moral instruction. I do not know what to do—he is Lorenzo's particular friend, and I fear that to object would cause my lord to think ill of me. Yet that would be worse, like letting my children eat unwholesome food for fear of offending the cook."

"I understand," I said, remembering how her sons would turn out. Piero would lay waste to his inheritance. Giovanni would go on to become Pope Leo X, and with Borgia as his example, would go on to indulge himself in immoderate personal luxury and bankrupt the papacy. Giuliano wouldn't do much of anything, and the adopted son, Giulio, who would go on to become Pope Clement VII and bungle Henry VIII's divorce. If there was ever a bunch who could use more moral instruction, it was those four boys.

"I agree with you, especially since you plan that at least one of them will enter the Church. Many of those who occupy the highest offices now could stand to be more familiar with the precepts they're supposed to promote, and I don't mean that facetiously...Perhaps if you were to ask Poliziano to pen a version of the Scripture for the instruction of the young with good grammar and style, and promise to have it printed, you would show both him and your husband that you take education seriously and that you too take an interest in the arts."

"That is a good idea," she said, her face brightening. "There is another reason I wanted to speak to you alone. I know you lost your mother when you were still very young, and although your father was an excellent one, by what I have heard of him, still there are matters of which he could not have spoken to you. About marriage, that is. There is a book I meant to include with your wedding present, but I think it better that you have it now. A most holy and reverend father wrote it, and it has advice on how to improve the chance of conception as well as many other aspects of married life. Men, you see...men sometimes ask things of their wives that they should not, and this book also speaks of how to turn away sinful demands, and keep the peace in a house."

I did not laugh at her, then or ever. Surrounded as I was by Assassins, fighting against Templars, in the midst of the culture which produced some of the most devious and dangerous minds in the history of the world, Clarice was the only straightforward and uncomplicated person I knew. Being in her company was uniquely peaceful, and our friendship later proved to be extremely important.

Besides, the book in question turned out to be very interesting.

We made our way back to the grand sala, where Poliziano was leafing through a book while Lorenzo took some map measurements with a protractor. Mario looked up as we entered. "He thinks it's real, Micina." he said.

"He does?" I asked.

"I do," Lorenzo confirmed. "But the question is, what are you going to do with it?"

"That's a tough one to answer," Mario admitted, "We're talking about fabulous treasures, maybe, but spread out over two cities. That's a lot of work, and truth be told, I haven't the resources. Then it's also in Neapolitan territory... It's too big for us to tackle. The Prince of Napoli could, though. I could try to sell him on this."

"Why the Prince of Napoli?" Lorenzo asked. "Why not me?"

"Ser Lorenzo, I would not want to risk our families' friendship on a venture as uncertain as this. Should it prove barren, there is sure to be ill will." Mario replied, soberly.

"There is risk in everything one does in this world, and the Auditore have credit of such good will with me that it would take lifetimes to exhaust." Lorenzo said. "Do you know how many people pester me with schemes not half so interesting? Droves, I assure you. This is more than any investment in yet another ship to the Indies or a questionable loan to another petty king. This is an adventure!"

The fish was hooked and reeled in. All that was left was hammering out the details.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry this chapter took so long, but thanks to a broken furnace and a power outage, I've been essentially incommunicado for a week. Please forgive me if I didn't reply to your review. I will catch up soon, I promise.


	52. Regrets

Cristina Vespucci Soderini went to the Brunelli fattoria that day to see the red glazed maiolica that everyone was talking about, and found the place simply packed with fashionable Florentines, both male and female. From the comments of other shoppers, she gathered it had been so ever since the first large pieces glazed simply and only in pure scarlet had gone on display. It was as much as anyone could do to get even one small piece with red in the design at the moment, so great was the demand, unless they were prepared to commission a full set of dishes.

Cristina could not; while her husband Manfredo had given up conventional types of gambling before their marriage two years before, he had recently discovered that speculation with investments provided the stimulation so vital to his life. He was successful, successful enough to make a modest profit, but while waiting for the latest ship to come in, things could get rather lean in the Soderini household. Cristina hoped that when he heard that she believed she was finally pregnant after two years of marriage, he would…well, that he would speculate more conservatively, leaving them more margin to live on.

_Manfredo is not a bad man_, she reminded herself as she ran her fingers over a design of roses around the edge of a platter. _I chose him. He has not been a bad husband. I just didn't realize_…Realize what? That not all men were equally good lovers? That her father had had to double her dowry to make up for the fact that she had mislaid her virginity with Ezio Auditore? And that Manfredo had gambling debts against which he had pledged that dowry? Or that she could never forget Ezio, nor forgive him for leaving her to this crushingly dull life she now led…

(Had she possessed the necessary insight,she would have realized this: when Ezio asked her to accompany him, his mother and sister to Monteriggioni after the judicial deaths of his father and brothers, she had said 'No' not because she could not leave her family, but because she was afraid. It was one thing to marry the scion of a noble family with a solid future ahead of him in banking, and quite another to run off with a wanted man whose family was disgraced and tainted, not knowing where they would live or what they would live on. She had not the courage to take her life into her own hands, and risk everything. And when he did return, she had **_not_** said 'I am engaged to be married, but I don't want to marry him. I want to marry you.' In their reunion of her imaginings, he had known instinctively what to do, what to say. He ignored her protests and half abducted her...but the real-life Ezio had not read that script, and instead respected her decision. If she could have examined her own thoughts, she would have realized she herself had scuttled their second chance. Not he.)

So much was she caught up in these thoughts that when someone said "Auditore", out loud, she almost thought she imagined it, but no. "When it's someone important, I always have time, Signora Auditore. Please, come back to my office, where there is not all this noise. Make way, please, for the Signora." The proprietress waved people aside in favor of...

It wasn't Maria Auditore, not Ezio's mother nor even his sister Claudia-who would have been 'Signorina', not 'Signora', in any case. She was young, sixteen or eighteen or so, a little shorter than average, with the healthy plumpness of baby fat still rounding out her face. Cristina took all this in in but a moment, yet that moment seemed to stretch out to forever. Hair dressed like a married woman. Every line of her was curved, from her forehead to her mouth to her figure. Very well dressed, in violet cloth-of-silver, but while clear and delicate of texture, her skin was too dark for any pretention to beauty. She was a little, plump brown sparrow of a woman, with nothing out of the ordinary about her. Had Cristina passed her on the street, she would have forgotten her face immediately.

Was this, could she be—Ezio's _wife_?

It wasn't possible.

She did not actually faint, but she did get dizzy and had to sit down all of a sudden. All around her, people asked questions like: was she sick, did she need a doctor? Rallying, she said no, she was all right, or would be. It was the crowd and the heat and her condition—Strong hands helped her up and guided her through the throng and into another room.

"What's wrong, Giannina?" a woman asked.

"This lady got taken all funny, madonna Brunelli, so I thought to get her out of the crush and give her a glass of water. She's expecting, so..." said the shopgirl.

"But I'm with-oh, well, it can't be helped, I suppose. I am sorry, Signora."

"It is no trouble at all. I only hope she will be all right." a third woman said. Her voice was cultured and a little lower than the average woman's.

"Thank you. I think I will be—" Raising her eyes, Cristina found it was worse. She was in an office with the owner of the fattoria—and with Signora Auditore. This was horrible, as if she had deliberately sought to spy on the woman who was probably Ezio's wife. "I am better now. I will go-." but her knees betrayed her.

"Sit a moment, please, madonna-." said the shop owner.

"Please do. You need to recover. You must not think that you are bothering us, for there is nothing we have to say that is at all secret," said Signora Auditore.

"Thank you. I am sorry..."

"Think nothing of it," her lover's wife said.

"Well," said Donna Brunelli. "Signora, as you can see, things have changed greatly for my fattoria since you last called upon me. I do not know how I can ever thank you, Madonna Auditore. Already I have settled half my debts and by the end of the quarter, will pay off the rest."

"You are very welcome. I'm glad it's turned out so well for you. Do the clay suppliers treat you with more respect now?"

"They do! Where they curled their lips before, now it is, 'Ah, Donna Brunelli, look! I have saved the best for you over here.' Of course, that is also thanks to you. Let me show you how your dishes have turned out." Crossing the room, the proprietress lifted the loose top of a crate, beckoning Signora Auditore to join her. "I hope it pleases you, Madonna."

"Oh, it does!" said the lady with pleasure. "Handsomer than I had imagined."

"You will note the border designs?" Brunelli pointed out. "Juniper, like your name." The Italian for juniper was 'ginepro', close enough in sound to 'Ginevra' for a slight pun.

"I like it. I like it very much. And the bottles? I am in need of them sooner than I expected."

"Over here in these crates. You said you wanted a simple design of flowers and roses on them, so I hope these meet with your approval." Donna Brunelli picked one out and handed it to Signora Auditore, who nodded approval.

"Yes. They will look very much at home on a dressing table or next to a wash stand. Once they are filled with lotion and sealed with wax, we'll tie a paper tag around the neck, saying what it is and where it is made. Oh, by the way, I brought you these by way of thanks for how prompt you were in completing my order, and so you'll know what you are making these for. This is the lotion, in the best bottle I could get in Monteriggioni—." That one word destroyed any hope Cristina cherished that she might be married to someone from another branch of the family, if such there was. "and several cakes of soap."

"Thank you...I've never seen soap like this before. It's so solid-and clean-and it smells nice." Cristina had heard of the newly fashionable toiletries, but had not had the chance to try them. She did not want to be caught staring at the two of them, so she looked at her hands and eavesdropped instead, feeling dirty and ashamed.

"Thank you! It was my father who discovered the secret to it. I would like to order some special dishes for soap. You see, since no one has seen soap like this before, they don't know that if you leave it standing in excess water, it will go soft and mushy. So what they will need is a dish like this-I had a carpenter carve one out as an example. See how the bottom has ridges and drainage holes?"

"I do, yes. May I have this to use as a form?" asked the fattoria head.

"Of course. I would like six dozen soap dishes, as well as another gross of lotion bottles. Also, these are matches. They're a handy way of starting a fire instantly." Cristina could not see what Ginevra shook out onto the desktop, but she saw the other woman rub a short stick of wood against the rough plaster wall and the flare of light that followed.

"My! That is a wonder! What makes it do that?"

"Two minerals, sulfur and phosphorus, the latter of which my father discovered. Striking against something rough heats them up enough to burst into flame. They'll cost a copper apiece, sold in packs of fifty or a hundred. But to keep them handy in the house—have a look at this drawing. I call it a match safe."

"I see," Donna Brunelli studied it. "It's a little like a holy water font, but the font is deeper and square shaped. That's to hold the…matches?"

"Yes. Now, the wall plate should have a nail hole for hanging, but other than that it can be painted and glazed however you like. Little dancing flames might be appropriate. The container, though, should be left unglazed to provide a striking surface and made rougher with crosshatching or with sand in the clay, however you want to do it—I am no potter, and do not mean to tell you your business. Six dozen of these as well—and if you want to make more soap dishes or match safes for sale here, you are free to do so. Now, as for today's merchandise, let us settle up accounts now…" The conversation turned to matters of future shipping and delivery.

"Yes, that is agreeable. Thank you." Ginevra Auditore said.

"It is I who must thank you. Forgive me for asking, but...you are married, I know, yet you have the freedom of a widow in managing your affairs. Your husband—he _allows_ you to do this?"

Signora Auditore smiled rather shyly. "It is not just with his permission but with his encouragement. I have been…singularly fortunate in my marriage, more than I ever thought to be, since that my husband is man enough that having a clever wife with business sense does not diminish nor bother him."

"A rare felicity that must be!" exclaimed Brunelli, but in her misery, Cristina had not been able to stifle a heartfelt moan of pain. "Oh, Lord, she was so quiet I more than half-forgot her. Madonna, I am sorry. Giannina must have been held up by the other customers. I will go and get her."

"And I will take my leave. Arrivederci, Donna Brunelli." Ginevra Auditore rose and left the office, which meant Cristina would not learn who exactly she was married to for several days, and that Ginevra, alas, would never get to tell her what she thought of her.

Yet in the end, it was all for the best. Cristina Vespucci was not resourceful nor tough nor strong enough to cope with life among Assassins. And that was the truth.

A/N: I know I planned to post a chapter on Monday which took the story back to Caterina and Ezio, but for some reason it wasn't happening the way I wanted and instead, I got to wondering about Cristina.


	53. No Regrets

Hunger…In her early life, Caterina had only thought she had been hungry—after a day of hunting and hawking, for example, but when she was pregnant, she realized that had only been appetite. Breastfeeding, too, made her hungry, ravenously hungry, but that was only hunger.

This—living on four ounces of bread a day—was _starvation_.

The first night of her incarceration they had marched her up to the top of the tallest tower in Forli, unclimbable, or so they said, with its exterior walls stuccoed smooth and windowless expanses. Then they had shoved her up on to the roof and let her lay on the bare boards all night, exposed to the wind and weather. Fortunately it had been a rare, clear night. After that she was allowed the shelter of a room on the top floor, with a bare cot to lie on.

At least thirst was not a problem, thanks to Forli's dismal weather. Rain water was plentiful and purer than well water or river water. The hunger was not bad yet, not then. Her breasts hurt worse, bursting as they were. She pressed the milk from them and threw it away with her other bodily wastes, over the side of the tower, and worried about the children. Were they being cared for properly? Who had Raffaelo found to nurse the baby? Was she healthy and sober in her habits? Was she a drunkard, or worse, a consumptive who would infect him through her milk? Was the true plan to let them die? For the sake of their inheritance, or to blame her further?

The second night, Borgia came to give her her supper, the chunk of plain, dry bread that would be all she would get for that day. He glared and sneered, she smiled sweetly and asked if he was still sore. All entirely expected, both his bile and her response.

Later, her husband's cousin came, and that _was_ a surprise. Lying down on her cot, for there was nothing else to do, she heard outside her door, "—and what if he is a cardinal? Am I not a cardinal also? I _will_ speak with that harlot, and without anyone hanging over my shoulder, as though I meant to smuggle her out of here under my robes. Yes, go and tell him. I care not if you do."

Caterina got up and made her way to the door as soundlessly as she could. In a moment, she heard a scratching, and then, "Contessa? Caterina?" He did not sound angry or hostile as he had during the interview the day before.

"Yes," she whispered back. "Raffaelo—are the children well?"

"As well as you could wish them. Listen, for I doubt not the guards will have Borgia informed in minutes. I know well he is no more my friend than he is yours. He cares nothing about justice for Girolamo! His schemes are all he cares about. I have written to His Holiness already telling him of this. What I want to know from you is, were you complicit in the murder of your husband or not?"

"I was not. I swear it on my hope of eternal salvation. I did not kill him, nor did I have him killed. I do not know the identity of his killer. I did not order his death or solicit it in any fashion, and this I swear upon Heaven." _All that I did was stay silent. Silence implies consent, they say. Yet I can say this, and still not be forsworn_.

"It is enough for me," said Raffaelo. "You are too bold and outspoken for a woman, to be sure, but none have ever said of you that you were false. I spoke harshly to you, and will again, to cover my true intents, but from here on, I shall work to see true justice done. Tomorrow, I will see to it that you are fed. I cannot grant you your liberty, but I can see to it you are treated more fairly, and you need have no worries for the children, as I shall treat them as though they were my siblings."

"Thank you. Thank you, cousin." she replied, genuinely touched. This sullen-seeming, pimply youth had more to him than it seemed on the surface.

But the morrow came, and neither Raffaelo nor food came with it. Her hunger rose as the sun rose in the sky, yet it did not set when night fell and Borgia returned.

"So there you are," she said, forcing a light mockery into her voice. "Make sure you do not give me too much bread, because I am finding the effects of this diet very pleasing. It's so difficult to get one's figure back after having a baby, particularly after you've already had two, but you're making it easy for me! You must be sure and have your fat-arsed Vanozza follow the same after she whelps your latest brat."

"Still so much venom in you," he said, shaking his head in hypocritical sorrow.

"Better my own venom than anything that might come out of you," was her retort. "Speaking of venom, make that scabby-faced cousin of mine stay away from me, do you understand? He was up here last night disturbing my peace."

Borgia chuckled. "That I can certainly promise you, Contessa. The poor lad suffered a fall on the way back down from your ivory tower and broke his neck. A tragedy, really. He had the potential for a great career ahead of him."

That accident was no accident. Borgia had spies around, by inference, and one of them had taken the opportunity to remove the only ally Caterina had. "A sad loss for the Church," she agreed. "Take care, Cardinal Borgia. I would not want his malady to become catching."

Borgia left, after a few more pointed barbs of wit.

The next day she was hungry enough to do something disgusting, animalistic. She drank the milk she pressed from her breasts.

It only made her hungrier.

That was nearly a week ago, now. Her breasts had dried up. Her clothing hung on her nearly as loose as they would on a clothesline, and she could feel her hipbones, her ribs standing out. No longer did she gibe at Borgia when he came to give her the handful of bread every night. When he asked her why, she replied, simply, "You bore me."

Had it been worth all this suffering, that moment when she had his balls in her hand and did her best to crush them?

An involuntary grin stretched her face. Yes, it had.

But not if this went on much longer. She had the freedom of the tower roof, and that, coupled with her hunger, was doing…things to her mind. All that freedom, all around her, if she could only spread out her arms like wings and fly away… Perhaps one day she would—and wouldn't that put an end to Borgia's plans? Not yet, though, not yet.

An eagle perched there on the roof from time to time. Once it brought a fresh-caught pigeon with it, and when she pitched a stone at it, it flew off, leaving the still bleeding carcass behind. She ate it, raw as it was, pulling shreds of meat from the bones with fingers and teeth, and then crunching up the smaller bones as well, as if it were any small game bird served at table. As little flesh as there was on it, it helped to sustain her—and it tasted wonderful. It seemed anything would taste wonderful when you were starving.

If she was ever free again, no, _when_, when she was free, she would sell some of her jewels and found a charity to feed whoever needed it. No one should have to be hungry, no one, ever.

But now it was night, and she lay in her cot, too hungry to sleep. How many days had it been? She counted them over in her mind. Onetwothreefourfivesix—There was a loud thump on the tower roof.

It didn't sound like an owl. It didn't sound like an eagle, either, but it had to be a bird. She turned over and waited for dawn.

In the morning, when she went up through the trapdoor for the rainwater that had collected in the night, she found something else. A parcel wrapped in oilcloth, which when open, proved to contain…

Food. _Lots_ of it, smoked meat and hard cheese, a loaf of bread, dried fruit and nuts baked in honey, a flask of wine. She nearly wept. Where did it come from? How did it get there? No one could have gotten up to the roof without going past her, and she had lain awake all the night. All she had heard was that thump. So—from whence had this miracle come?

She was too hungry to care, but still too sensible to gorge herself, lest she throw it all up again. Halving the loaf, she ripped it in half again before she began to eat, and paused to say grace to Whoever might be listening.

At the bottom of the parcel, she found the note. _Contessa Caterina Sforza_, it began, _Eat and regain your strength. On the first clear night, be ready and waiting on the roof. Your rescue is at hand_.

_A friend_.

A rescue. On the first clear night. That might mean several days. She divided out small portions of the meat and cheese, noting with approval that whoever had put together the parcel had chosen foods with good keeping qualities, nothing that would go bad in a day's time, and they had been generous with the portions. So she would be rescued, would she?

But how? The only way on or off the tower's roof was either down through the trapdoor, and then down the stairs or…

Shielding her eyes, she looked up at the sun which fought to burn through the cloud cover.

Or to fly away.

Which was impossible.

Unless an angel was coming to get her, which was equally impossible.

Either way, at the moment, her part was to regain her strength, and that she could best do by eating sparingly and getting some much needed sleep. All her questions would be answered, in time.


	54. Taking Flight

Flying, as far as Ezio was concerned, was right up there with the pleasures of love as truly great physical sensations went. There was the rush of wind swirling around the edges of the antigravity field, the sense of weightlessness, as though the air were a mattress he was lying on. The stars in the sky were echoed in the lights burning in the city below him, and his arms ached pleasantly as he wheeled over Forli like the eagle for which he had been named. Such freedom—.

But he had other matters on his mind, and the tower rose up above the city, stark square. He could just see the pale oval of a woman's face, the mouth an 'O' of astonishment, as he made a swooping pass over her. "Get to one side!" he called at the nadir of the pass, banked, and turned. Flying seemed almost instinctive, really. Did years of casually observing birds unintentionally teach him how, or was there something more to it , a memory so old it went back to Those Who Came Before?

On the second pass, he pulled up and back-winged madly, skidding to a halt on the tower roof. Caterina, as he now knew her to be, stepped forward, amazement and wonder in her face. "You?" she asked. "But how—and you?" she said, almost overwhelmed into speechlessness.

"Yes, Contessa. Ezio Auditore da Firenze, at your service. I regret we have not time for explanations now, but it would do little good were we to be taken here by Borgia's men. There is a sling attached to the harness and straps on my shoulders. As I am buckled in, I fear I cannot help you. You must climb on, hang on and stay balanced. If you slip, I cannot catch you."

"I see." She wasted no time, darting across the roof to duck inside the band of fabric and leather Ezio and Leonardo had devised with the help of Rosa, a feisty sneak-thief of Venezia who had played Caterina's part in trial runs. (Ezio's ears still rang a little from her first shriek.) "This is why I had to get my strength back." Wriggling the sling down around her hips, she sat down and took hold of the hand straps.

"Yes. Are you secure?" It was awkward, but the only way he could carry someone was if they were chest to chest and nearly cheek to cheek.

"I am. Oh!" Ezio took two fast bounds, and leapt from the tower roof. To her credit, she did not scream like Rosa, although she went pale and rigid. They dropped half way down before he caught an updraft, and then they soared.

"How wonderful!" she exclaimed as he beat the wings a couple of times, gaining altitude.

"I am glad you think so. Now, since we are a little more at leisure, I must beg your forgiveness, both for the method of this rescue and for making it necessary to begin with. I did not know you were the wife of the Count when I slew him, and before your eyes as well."

"Don't be sorry," She gave him a steady, leveling glance. "He was the blight of my life. I married him at fourteen and he kept me pregnant most of the time ever since without giving me any joy in the process. He made a lousy father, and he was as boring out of bed as he was in it. I probably would have been driven to hire someone to do the deed, sooner or later. You set me free—twice now."

"But in the meantime, I brought you to that pass," he gestured with his chin toward the tower. "Beyond imprisonment and starvation, did Borgia mistreat you?"

He meant rape and/or torture. " No. He had not come to that point, not yet. I do not blame you for his actions, Ezio," she told him, "for from what he said, I believe it was in his mind to exploit me for my family connections, my property and position for some time, and my husband's death was all it took. But, tell me, how is it we can fly like this? I cannot believe it is so easy, or else men would have been doing so long before."

"It is not. Do you see the device mounted on the flyer at the back of my neck? It generates a force which pushes back against the forces that drag us to the ground. I cannot claim credit for it; my friend Leonardo made it. That is, Leonardo da Vinci. Have you heard of him?"

"Who has not?" she replied.

"He has been studying the Corpus Hermetica, and in it he found, somehow, the secret used by the Egyptians of old when they built their pyramids. I chanced to overhear that you were imprisoned by the Templars and why, and went to him to come up with a way to rescue you. He had the flyer ready, and the force generator, but lacked the courage to try them. I have not his intellect, but I had the courage."

"So I see," She looked down at the ground. "It is a formidable achievement on his part, and a most valuable friend. One can tell a great deal about people by who their friends are, Ezio Auditore da Firenze." Looking back up at him, he saw admiration in her eyes.

Her heart was throbbing against his, he could feel it, and her every breath as well. Moreover, she was beautiful and the harness design had her hip rubbing against him in a place and in a way that could prove very embarrassing if she noticed and if he didn't get his mind on other things. "Ah—I do not plan to drop you just anywhere—."

"I am delighted to hear that," she cut in. "Especially at this moment."

That made him smile. "Once we reach a town large enough, I will hire an armed escort to see you safely to Milano and into your uncle's protection. Then he can start negotiations to reclaim your properties and your children."

She was silent a long moment, a thoughtful silence, while they traversed over forests and hills in a way no human had ever moved over the land before. "That is honorable and generous of you, Ezio. It's an excellent plan."

"Thank you, Contessa."

"Oh, call me Caterina. Your plan is an excellent one, but it's not what I want. You overheard that I was being held prisoner for the death of my husband, but that wasn't the real reason Borgia had me locked up. I spoke of his exploiting me for my family connections. He meant to hold me as a hostage so my family in Napoli and Milano both would abandon and betray Firenze and Lorenzo.

"Well, that bastardo can't do that if he hasn't got a hostage, can he? I want to drop off the face of the Earth. I want to disappear without a trace. I want my family's ambassadors to come and for him to be unable to produce me. I want for the figlio de puttana to sweat and suffer. Let them pressure him and threaten him and squeeze him for any sign of me! If they know I'm safe, it won't be the same. Let him shrivel and plead for time, let him scour the whole country and not find me! That's what I want.

"I know…I know that it means I will be separated from my children for months, but I would be in any case—if not forever. But that is what I want! Now, do you know of a secure place I can hide from the eyes of the world?"

"I—," In the face of such spirit and determination, Ezio was a little at a loss. "Monteriggioni. My uncle Mario is the lord there, and he's a condottiero. It's secure and safe."

"A condottiero…An honorable one, or one who will sell me out to the first comer?"

"No man has more honor than Mario Auditore, Contessa," Ezio would not let anyone talk trash about his family in that way. "He harbored my mother and sister when the world was against us, besieged San Gimigiano for our sake, and taught me all I know of weapons, warcraft, and Assassination."

"If he is a man such as you," she said, mollifying, "then he is more than enough. Take me there, Ezio. Please."

"Um…You should know, he is recently married, and not only would you have to get along with his wife, but my mother and sister live there as well."

"I don't see why that would be a problem." She would have shrugged, if it wouldn't have unbalanced her.

"You haven't met them yet…"


	55. Dalliances and Alliances

A/N: Warning: Some slightly explicit stuff in this chapter! Ginevra/Mario _and_ Ezio/Caterina.

* * *

Ginevra was already curled up on the bed when Mario entered, toweling himself off after a bath. There was a lot to be said for a soap that could be used on even the most sensitive areas without having it eat holes in your skin, and since his family made it, he had to use it, after all. Since he had just come from the bath, he was dressed accordingly, which was to say, _not_ dressed.

Surveying his wife, he noted the smile playing around her mouth and the book she was avidly reading, drew a conclusion, and asked, "What's so funny? I thought you were reading that marriage book Clarice gave you."

"Oh, I am. This was written by a 'Father Seraphino', and I doubt he ever laid a fingertip on a woman since he was weaned. So much of this is wrong in so many, many ways." She turned a page, and chortled.

"Such as what?"

"Well, that a woman's womb has seven compartments—three for boys, three for girls, and one for hermaphrodites, and where the father's seed lands decides what it's going to be. At least he got one thing right—the father does determine what it's going to be."

"That's right," Mario agreed, feeling on firm ground here. "The left castagna makes girls, the right makes boys."

Ginevra's eyes were sparkling a bit extra. "Um—not exactly, but yes, it's definitely split in two. Anyhow, how much do you know about the fine details of sin?"

"Given my professions and my heritage, I am proud to say I don't know a lot."

"Would it surprise you to hear that we are, despite the blessing and the betrothal, living in sin?" she asked him.

"And how," he asked, "is that?" She was sitting up now, and the chemise she had on was not only damp and clinging, but also very loosely laced and sliding down one shoulder. She was looking more like an occasion for sin at every moment, what with dimples and sparkling eyes and…whatnot. "This Father Seraphino isn't some kind of a heretic, is he?"

She leaned forward conspiratorially. "No, he's no heretic. Our sin is—or I should say, _one_ of our sins is 'conjugal excess'. Meaning we do it too often and enjoy it too much."

"So that's a sin too? I thought the whole point of getting married was not having to worry about that any more. So what does he think is right?"

"First of all, we shouldn't do it on Sundays, but not only that, to get the maximum spiritual benefit, we should abstain for two days before and two days after."

"Spiritual benefits be hanged. Only on Wednesdays and Thursdays?—you're not taking this to heart, I hope." he coughed discreetly.

"Oh, but listen. Even then, not if it's a saint's day or other holy day or—this list of exclusions is too long. Let's just say that when all the mathematics is done, there are only about twenty days out of the year when a lawfully married couple can potentially do it. He thinks once a month is about right, maybe twice."

"By that measure we've already used up all this year's days." he commented.

"But if we go by number of times, we're already well into next." she countered.

"Now that's not my fault, Micina. Once a night and maybe three, four times a week was fine with him," he gestured at his nether regions, "until you went and injected me with that medicine of yours."

"I trust you're not complaining…"

"Me? No!"

"Somehow I didn't think you would. It might interest you to know that we've been _very_ bad in other ways… Barring physical handicaps, it's only all right with Seraphino if you face the earth and I face the sky, and if we're face to face the whole time. Anything else leads to libidinous, sinful urges. And it must be done under the covers, with only enough nudity to actually do the deed. He included an illustration, see?"

"What?" Mario took the book, and regarded the woodcut. It was only pornographic if one's idea of titillation included a fetish for voluminous swathes of fabric. The caption even had to explain which was the husband and which was the wife, as the faces were too crude and no sexual characteristics were on display. "I've seen filthier pictures in prayer books. Why have they both got their heads wrapped up?"

"So that the vital heat necessary for conception doesn't escape that way. If it were only that simple…" She crossed her legs and watched him as he flipped through another page or two.

"Have you got to this bit yet?" he asked. "'Woe that the devil should so get to a married couple and incite them to caress and kiss not only each other's honest parts but the dishonest ones as well!' I take exception to that. There _is_ no more honest part of a man than his carciofo. He may tell falsehoods, he may write down any lie he likes, but where his cazzo is concerned—he can't make it rise when it is of a mind not to. A man may lie, but not with his manhood."

"In English, you couldn't say that. The word for telling a falsehood and the word for bedding someone are the same. Either way, a man lies." The last word was, of course, in English.

"Damn the whole race of them, then. Ah." He turned back to the book. "Here's a bit addressed to wives. 'Should your husband demand these bestial, horrible and evil acts of you, you must refuse him. If he then beats you till your bones crack and tear you apart, cheer up and tell him you wish to become a martyr and go straight to heaven!' _This_ is the advice Clarice Orsini wants you to follow?"

"I've been trying not to think too hard about that part. She meant well, and if I were a child bride, completely ignorant, and you were a selfish, clumsy lout, this book would have been an authority for me to turn to if I wanted to say 'Not tonight', or 'That hurts.'"

He tossed the book on the side table and joined her on the bed. "If you say so. I can think of more immediate ways of going to heaven…"

"Stop!" She put a hand up between them. "Are you feeling well?"

"Yes. Why, what's wrong?"

"Well, according to the book, a wife may look at her husband's genitals only if he is sick, and not for any other reason. Certainly not for stimulation. So, are you sick?"

"Oh." He faked a cough and groaned. "Yes, I am. I am very, very, sick. Oh, please, can't you do something?" The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he was stifling laughter at the same time.

"Then I'd better have a look. It _is_ my wifely duty, after all. Hmmm. That swelling must be quite uncomfortable—and it's getting worse! I think I have the remedy for it, though."

"How lucky I am to have a wife who is so concerned about my health…"

Once both parties were restored to perfect health, Ginevra and Mario lay side by side on the bed, regarding the ceiling with tranquility. "I think we broke at least three more rules right there," she said happily.

He laughed, and asked, "So what are you going to say to Clarice about that parcel of nonsense, Micinia? You know she's going to ask."

"I will tell her we read it together, discussed it, and derived great benefit from it," she told him. "Can you deny that?"

"No." He traced her lips with a finger.

She went on, "And I will give credit to Father Seraphino for this—he does believe a woman should enjoy it too, and that there are reasons to do it other than making babies. First, to prevent each other from sinning elsewhere, and second, to create and strengthen a loving marriage bond. One can hardly argue with that last bit."

"No, you can't."

"Besides," she said, "it's given me an idea. There's a whole chapter, a long chapter on recipes intended to put life back into a limp cazzo. None of them are worth the paper they're printed on. What if I started making and selling pills that _do_ work? I figure I could charge whatever I wanted for them. Men and women both would be lining up for them."

"For something that's _sure_ to work? Just how rich do you plan on making us?" He sat up on one elbow to regard her better.

"How about rich enough to bribe the College of Cardinals into making somebody other than Borgia pope, if the worst comes to the worst?"

He drew in a deep breath and expelled it, puffing out his cheeks. "That would—We're talking serious money there, Micina. Whatever he has, you'd have to double it and then some."

"Good thing we've got twelve years, then. In the meantime, I just hope to make enough to solve Monteriggioni's fresh water supply problem."

"Ah, _now _we're talking!"

* * *

Elsewhere: If any landing you walk away from can be said to be a good landing, then Ezio and Caterina landed well. Otherwise, there was considerable room for improvement. The antigravity generator was literally running out of juice (Leonardo had powered it with the most primitive and simple battery possible, made from a lemon with two skewers of different metals stuck into it). As they happened to be over land rather than water when the moment of crisis came, Ezio did his best to coast to a halt by braking with his feet, but they went tumbling end over end anyhow, ending up in a deep thicket on the outskirts of some woods.

The flying machine came apart around them, wood splintering and canvas tearing, until all that was lift was the parts that were attached to Ezio. Including, fortunately, the generator, which Leonardo had made Ezio swear he would recover. The young Assassin did his best to shield Caterina with his body in their tumbling halt, and all in all, it could have been a lot worse.

"Are you all right?" Ezio asked, sitting up and checking Caterina over for injuries.

"Yes, I think so," she said, untangling her hair from a sticker bush and wincing. "You?"

"Not so bad. Here, can you help me with these buckles?" he requested.

"Of course." Her fingers went to work on the straps, but she paused.

And then she kissed him.

It wasn't just a peck on the cheek, either.

"Contessa!" Ezio said, surprised. He was as ready to make a new conquest as the next man, given the chance, but with the understanding that they were both as free as air and the liaison no more binding than that same air. Caterina Sforza was not air, but fire, and there was a risk that one or both of them would end up getting burned.

"Ezio," she said, touching his face. "My life does not belong to me. It has never belonged to me. I have obligations and responsibilities, to my name, to my people, to my children. All my life, I have been hemmed in by them and by people who watched my every move, listened to my every word. I have never been this free before, and I may never be this free again. I told you what my husband was like. Will you not give me this one stolen hour out of my life?"

There was only so much a man could take, and that was enough for Ezio. The circumstances were not ideal, given the lack of a mattress and the presence of sticker bushes, and given that she had just had a baby, he did not want to hurt her or give her another whose birth date could not be reconciled with the calendar, so he did not actually enter her. He succeeded in giving her what she wanted, and took pleasure in it as well.

"I can tell you this," Caterina said, afterward, "had it been like that with my husband, I would have had the whole castello in there before I let you kill him."

"Caterina, I—," Ezio began, but she went on as if he hadn't spoken.

"It's hours yet until dawn, and I think it would be best if we were well away before anyone thinks to look in on me. Where do you think the nearest town is?" Nor would she return to the subject of what had happened between them, leaving Ezio to wonder where matters stood, and what, if anything, that time had meant to her at all.

* * *

Vocabulary! Castagna=chestnut. Euphemism for testicles. Carciofo=artichoke. Euphemism for penis. Why? If you've ever looked at an artichoke on its stem…well, it's kind of reminicent. Cazzo=penis, as you know if you've played AC2 with subtitles on for translation purposes. The details from the book on marriage were taken from How To Do It by Rudolph M. Bell, a very humorous look at advice and self-help books published in Renaissance Italy.


	56. Monteriggioni, Redux

About thirty-six hours later:

Passion, Caterina decided, was a trap, baited with the promise of that honey-sweet moment when your bones trembled. All it took was for love-making to be good once, just once, and you found yourself wanting more, and worse, finding yourself apt to become foolishly fond of the man who could give you that pleasure. She had successfully avoided talking about what had happened between them all the previous day, but when night came and they could go no further without falling off their horses out of fatigue and the horses were ready to drop as well, they were forced to stop. Ezio, using both gold and his natural charm, had persuaded a farmer to put them up for the night. He had said she was his wife, and she had been too tired to protest. What good would it have done?

Besides, they were too tired to do anything but eat and fall asleep. In the morning, though—in the morning, when they were well rested, it was even better than in the thicket. If Ezio had not, fortunately for her, called her 'Cristina' at entirely the wrong moment, she might have told him something she would regret later. He had apologized sincerely and profusely, but it made for a good excuse not to talk about what had happened for a while longer.

And yes, Ezio Auditore was handsome, and resourceful, and charming. He had rescued her, made love to her, was even now protecting her and escorting her to safety, but…

It was getting difficult to remember why she should not become attached to Ezio. What was he? A killer for hire, an outlaw. A man of no consequence in the circles in which she traveled. She was the daughter of a duke (_the bastard daughter_, a part of her mind whispered to her. _Your mother's husband __**pimped**__ her out to his friend in return for preferment and favors_.) She had been the ornament at Court (_and what is an ornament but something decorative and useless?_), been courted for not only her beauty and her influence with her relatives, but for her wit and charm. (_Words, empty words_.)

What could she do, what would she be as Ezio's…what? His lover? His wife? That was sentimental nonsense. She would soon learn what it would be like among the women of his family, stuck away in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do, no doubt, but manage the servants and keep the linen closet well stocked. Such a life would strangle her. No, even if there weren't the children to think of… She could have any number of lovers now that she was free, provided she was discreet. She did not have to settle for one Ezio Auditore da Firenze.

Now the famous city walls of Monteriggioni loomed ahead of them, and there seemed to be a lot of activity around the gates, mainly carters unloading casks of beer and wine. "Is it a market day?" Caterina asked aloud.

"What's the date?" Ezio replied with another question.

"The thirtieth—or perhaps the thirty-first." she answered after a moment's thought.

He immediately looked happier than he had in hours. "Then I haven't missed the wedding!" He speeded his horse along.

"What?" she hastened her own mount to keep pace. "Whose wedding?"

"My uncle Mario and Ginevra's." he explained.

"Didn't you say he was already married?"

Ezio laughed. "Well—they were betrothed by the prete, but they…didn't wait. It's the same in the eyes of the church, but everyone in town was asking when the wedding would be, so Uncle gave in."

"I see," Caterina said. Stabling their horses, they entered the town. Within the walls, the townspeople were making ready for the celebration by hanging up bright new banners, putting up garlands of green branches and swabbing down the street from the villa all the way to the church. After living for so long in Forli with its washed-out pallor, the strong, warm colors of Tuscany were a bit of a shock to the system. The sky was bluer here, the greens lusher, the light more golden, and the people correspondingly livelier, or so it seemed.

As they went through the town, everyone they passed had a wave and a friendly word for Ezio, calling out things like "Ser Ezio! Welcome home!" or "You made it! Your uncle will be so pleased!" Some of the men, burly mercenaries dressed up in their best, went so far as to clap him on the shoulder or administer a friendly punch to the arm, as comrades in arms. She could not help but contrast that to Girolamo, who would have bridled at such familiarity.

(The rumor mill, which had ground so quick and fast when Ezio brought Ginevra there nearly two months before, barely managed to turn at his arrival with Caterina, mainly because the townsfolk assumed she was another wedding guest. That would change.)

Since Mario Auditore was the lord of Monteriggioni, his wedding was as much a public event as a private one. The whole town would be turning out to see him well and truly hitched, and afterward, they expected a share in the festivities. For the common folk, that meant beer, wine, and roasted meat-hence the barrels that were being ported up the hill, and the savory smell of ox and pork roasting. Quantity rather than quality was the key to their feast-as long as there was plenty, they would be well satisfied, and if it was self-serve, so much the better.

For the formally invited guests, there would be a fancier meal served seated at table, and several servants were setting it up outdoors as Caterina and Ezio climbed the stairs to the villa. When Ezio was called aside by another of the townspeople, Caterina could not help but eavesdrop as one of them, an older woman with grizzled hair and muscular arms said, with no shame and even an air of approval, "Oh, no, Ser Mario had her maidenhead before they went off to Firenze the first time. Who should know better than I, being, as you know, their laundress? And since it's clear she looks on him as the sun in her sky, it means he's no mean skill in the use of his lance, even at his age."

"As buxom and supple as she is, he's like to swive himself to death," grumbled another. "And forty years or near it in age difference is not right, to my mind."

"A man has to die one way or another," cackled the laundress, "So long as he gets a son or two on Donna Ginevra first, and for that, she does have to be young. Buxom and supple help in that. For my part, I like her; she's pretty enough, but not so much that he'll forever have to watch out for other men, and she's ladylike without being one of those useless creatures who won't turn her hand to work nor set foot outside while the sun shines for fear of ruining her looks."

"She's not afraid of work, it's true, but mark me, her work smacks of witchcraft, and there is something about her eye I do not like." said the grumbler.

"There is nothing of witchcraft in what she does," a third opined, "It is but simple housewifery with a mite more of skill than most. Those matches are the cleverest thing ever thought of, so convenient and quick. And folks are already coming miles out of their way to buy her products. You've seen them lined up outside the apothecary's. There is money to be made, I can see that, and so can Ser Mario, else he would not encourage her. Look you, Firenze is known for the manufacture of fabrics and leather goods, and Venezia for her book-printing and glass. Why should not Monteriggioni be known for simples such as soap and matches? This could be the making of our town."

"Or its ruin," sniffed the grumbler. So interesting was this conversation that Caterina almost regretted it when Ezio returned to her.

"Sorry about that," he apologized. "My uncle must be getting ready upstairs and my mother is probably helping Ginevra get dressed. I think it would be best to see him first."

"It is your home and your family; I will follow wherever you lead me."

Where he led her was inside the handsome, well proportioned villa and up two flights of stairs, past the master bedroom where, from the noise, the bride was getting ready behind closed doors—the murmur of feminine voices carried through the wood. The next level had the rest of the bedrooms, and it was on one of those that Ezio knocked.

"Come in," a man's voice said. Ezio opened the door, only to be immediately swept up in an encompassing bear hug. "Ezio! You made it! Ah, this is wonderful. There's no one living I would rather were here today. But who is this pretty young lady?"

"Hello, Uncle," Ezio freed himself, "This is Caterina."

"Pleased to meet you, Donna Caterina. Welcome to our home." Obviously he thought she was just another wedding guest.

"Thank you, Ser Mario."

"You're welcome. Here, Ezio, can you show me how this cape is supposed to hang? I'm so used to the ones that go straight down the back that these side capes are a mystery to me." He turned up the collar of a steel-blue doublet, checking how the lapels lay.

"This is a different style for you, isn't it? A new suit and everything." Ezio asked, shaking out the cape, which was adorned with a coat of arms.

"Well, a man doesn't get married every day. Your mother was responsible for the cape—she has one for you as well, I think."

Caterina took advantage of the moment to survey her host. He was about Ezio's height, but more heavily built, mostly muscle but with some flab around his waist. One side of his face was fine, but the other was raked with scars, and the eye on that side was a perfect horror, bleary white with a pin prick of black at the center. It was difficult to look at without shuddering.

But—although his visage was lined with age to a certain degree, although he was scarred and his hair tinged with silver, he did not give the impression of being old. The way he moved, the way he stood—she would have taken him for forty.

Ezio arranged the cape to flow over one of his uncle's shoulders. "There. Uncle—."

"Could you do me another favor?" Mario asked.

"Uncle?" This was another voice, young and feminine. "I'm doing my best to keep track of the wedding gifts, but there's a whole set of maiolica tableware with our arms on it and I have no idea who it came from. Do you know?"

A young woman in green and silver hovered around outside the door. "Ezio!" she cried, catching sight of him. "You came after all!"

"Yes, I did, little sister!" Ezio gave her a hug.

"I have no idea who sent the dishes, Claudia," Mario said, fastening a heavy chain around his neck, "Maybe they're from Lorenzo."

"I asked Donna Clarice, and she says not." Did that mean Il Magnifico and his wife were here? That could be troublesome. Although she had changed a great deal since she was ten, he had been present at her betrothal to Girolamo.

"Then you've got me. Look, Ezio, will you do me that favor?" Mario held out a small box of chased silver. "This is for Ginevra. I meant to give it to her last night, but the ladies got it into their heads that we shouldn't sleep together the night before and that I can't see her until the ceremony. Will you take this to her?"

"Of course." Ezio took the box and snapped it open. Inside was a ruby brooch in the shape of a sunburst, with wavy rays of gold beaming out from the center. It was a princely gift, the ruby clear and superb in color, the whole piece bold and assertive. "Another piece from your stash?"

"Ah—no. I saw this in Firenze and—just give it to her. Please." The older man seemed a little embarrassed.

"All right. See you downstairs." The door closed, and Ezio smiled. "As if he's fooling anyone."

"Ezio, you're forgetting your manners," Claudia prompted.

"I'm sorry. Donna Caterina, may I present my sister Claudia Auditore. Claudia, this is Donna Caterina…"

"Just Donna Caterina will do for now," Caterina took over extending her hand.

Ezio's sister took it, her eyes narrowing. "I don't recall whose party you came with. Are you kin to Ser Stephano?"

"It's a long story," her brother said. "Best wait until later to get into it, capisce?"

"If you say so. You haven't seen Mother yet, have you?"

"No." Ezio replied.

"Then you better do it. She's helping Ginevra, and I have to get back to cataloging the presents." Claudia said, turning on her heel.

"Hmm." Ezio said, looking after his sister. "I should warn you that Claudia has a violent streak. Watch out for her right hook."

"I shall," Caterina promised. "Should we not deliver your uncle's gift? What family is his wife from, by the way?"

"She is—She's the daughter of one of the Schiavonis from Venezia," Ezio said. "He left home to become a physician. That's how my uncle knew him, from the wars. "

"I see. He must have been very successful to afford a dowry that would let her make a match with your family," Caterina probed. She was forming an idea about who this Ginevra was.

"Not in ready money, but she came with a legacy of another sort. She's Leonardo's platonic muse," Ezio said, leading her back down the stairs. "not that the one has anything to do with the other. But you'll meet her yourself in a moment."

* * *

A/N: Behind on replies again, scrambling to catch up. Sorry.


	57. Vanilla

From Episode Three of the BBC's Doctor, Alchemist and Mystery: Who was Sigismundo Schiavoni:

The camera opens on Shaun Hastings, who is digging into a frosty bowl of ivory-colored gelato while sitting outdoors on the rim of a fountain somewhere in Italy. "Ah. Hello. Pan around so everybody can get a look at the town, will you? Not too fast, you'll give them motion sickness. If you watched last season's Life of Da Vinci, you'll recognize where we are. This is Monteriggioni, where there is an extraordinary collection of his models and prototypes housed up in Villa Auditore-that's the building up at the top of the stairs there. This time we're here because so many of Schiavoni's alchemical discoveries first went into commercial production here. Including this." He lifts the bowl of gelato. "He didn't invent ice cream, but he did invent the most popular flavoring essence in the world-vaniglia. Or, as we know it, vanilla.

"Made from wood pulp, sulfur and ethyl alcohol, the first recorded use of vanilla was at his daughter's wedding, which was held here in September of 1480. It was a shame Dr. Schiavoni had to miss it. I'm sure he would have liked to be there, but he was two months' dead at the time, and I think his presence would have put a decided damper on the festivities..."

* * *

After Ezio had been greeted and hugged by both his mother (an elegant older woman in bronze silk) and the bride (radiant in scarlet and gold), and duly presented the groom's gift for the admiration of all present, he flung his mother's gift cloak on over the doublet he was already wearing, then dashed off to join his uncle and Lorenzo, who were already headed down to the town's Romanesque chapel.

Caterina found herself trailing after the bridal party, suddenly quite aware of how fatigued she was, and of her various aches and pains, a not unusual result of traveling so hard for two days straight. Her head ached, and her throat was sore from inhaling dust. She would much rather have lain down in a dark, quiet room than join in wedding celebrations, but it would have been churlish of her to demand that everyone drop what they were doing and attend to her. For one thing, there wasn't a servant to spare, and for another, it meant attracting the kind of attention she hoped to avoid. Once she had some food in her, she would rally fast enough, and the wedding feast did smell delicious.

Other than the family and Donna Clarice, the other ladies in the group were unknown to her. Good. From their clothing, they looked to be local gentry with a few minor nobles—no one she would have known in Milano, Roma, or Forli. She hung around the edges as they made their way down the stairs, over freshly cleaned cobblestones strewn with flowers. The townspeople sent up a happy buzz of excitement and commentary about the ladies' dresses and how nice the bride looked. Her aching head made the short walk seem longer than it was. At least during the wedding mass she would get to sit down indoors, but first there was the ceremony, held outside the front door.

Yes, there was Mario, in steel blue and storm grey, with Ezio next to him, slightly grubby but so handsome that it made up for any dirt—and Lorenzo, smiling benevolently. Caterina skirted around behind a stout matron, and tried to stay hidden. How happy they all looked, even Claudia and Maria, which was odd, because surely if Ginevra had a son, they would be out on their ears. Or perhaps not. This seemed to be an unusual family. To say the least.

The priest joined the hands of bride and groom, and the scene should have been ridiculous, the stuff of caricature: a girl who was willing to trade her youth and comeliness for wealth and status, an old fool who had persuaded himself that he was loved for himself alone, all the while lavishing expensive gifts on her. It should have been ridiculous...

Yet they were so obviously, unfeignedly happy and in love that it was moving. Glancing away from the couple, she realized she was not the only one who thought so, from the expressions on the faces of the other guests, commoner and noble alike. _They exchanged their vows as if they meant them_ , she thought cynically. When the priest bade them kiss, the townspeople cheered, clapped, and threw their hats in the air.

After the wedding mass, it was back up to the villa gardens where the festivities really got started. Thanks to Ezio, she secured a place at the very end of the head table, situated where Lorenzo was unlikely to see her, since he would have to crane his neck to do so. Seated next to her was an elderly gentleman who seemed rather deaf and paid more attention to the lady on his other side than to her. Ordinarily she would have rather resented that, but today, as out of sorts as she felt, she would not have wanted a more attentive or stimulating dining companion. Besides, the Auditore servants were bringing out the food.

At Caterina's own wedding, they had served roast peacock, carefully skinned to keep the feathers intact, and just as carefully dressed again afterward in its skin before serving. There had been pheasants in truffle sauce, too, and even a cockatrice made by sewing the back half of a suckling pig to the front half of an enormous capon. For entertainment, there had been a professional troupe who put on an allegorical pageant, with an ensemble of dwarf comedians, acrobats, tumblers, and dancing girls.

Here at Villa Auditore, the noble guests at the head table dined on roasted lamb rubbed with mint, rosemary and garlic, and on squab grilled in the spit with sage leaves. Rustic fare, perhaps, (Caterina had never had truly rustic fare in her privileged life) but more palatable than peacock, which made a fine show but gave everyone indigestion. She had been starving three days before, and so was not about to demand larks wrapped in forcemeat and decorated in edible gold leaf.

Nor was the entertainment equal to what she was used to. While there was a group of musicians from Siena, the rest of the performers were as home grown as the food. A team of mercenaries put on a juggling act using their weapons, for example, and another man did imitations, making an odd sound, then inviting listeners to guess what it was. The joke which got the most laughs was one where he made a sound somewhere between two cats in a sack and a braying donkey. No one could figure it out, and finally the man announced it was "Ser Mario's singing!" No one laughed harder than Ser Mario himself—apparently his poor singing voice was well known.

But the real surprise came at the end of the meal, when the servers brought out the dessert. It was customary to have an elaborate confection as the end to a feast—the host's heraldic animal sculpted out of marzipan and spun sugar, or a sailing ship of cake. Sometimes the surprise would be a huge pie which proved to be a hollow shell, filled with live doves which flew out when the crust was cut. But for extravagance and beauty, the Auditore wedding cake surpassed them all.

Walking with pride and care, four bearers brought in a huge silver platter with a life-sized swan on it, posed as if nesting. Green stalks of candied angelica formed the nest and the eggs were glazed fruit, but the swan—the swan had a head, neck and wings sculpted from baked meringue, but its body was _iced cream_. Given the time of year and the climate of the region, getting enough ice or snow to make iced cream would have been both difficult and expensive—_very_ expensive. The guests were duly impressed, but there was more. As the servers dished up the iced cream with pieces of the meringue to the head table, other servants brought out tubs of iced cream and began serving it to the townsfolk, scooping portions of it into what looked like wafer cookies bent into cone shape.

Caterina had seen extravagant gestures in her time. At one memorable banquet in Roma, the meal had been served on silver-gilt dishes, and at the end of the evening, their host ordered his servants to throw all the dirty plates out the window into the river, implying he could afford new ones on a whim. Of course, the river below was lined with fish nets. After the guests left, all the plates were recovered intact, if battered and dented, not to mention filthier than they were when they went in, but still, it had certainly created a sensation.

This gesture—serving iced cream to everyone in the town—left that act of bravura in the dust. She was almost too surprised to taste her serving when it was placed before her, but when she did—oh, it was heavenly. The texture was like velvet, and it was sweetened with honey and flavored with something she had never tasted before, something rich and complex yet as soothing as a fleecy blanket. Her scratchy throat demanded more of this wonderful cooling medicine, _right away_.

"What makes it taste like that?" she blurted out, swallowing another spoonful.

"It's called vaniglia, madonna," the servant replied, "Donna Ginevra makes it in her stillroom."

"Ah!" Lorenzo exclaimed loudly from halfway down the table, "I have it, Ser Mario. Your lady's father not only came up with a way to make fire instantly, but ice also! _That's_ how you could get so much ice all the way out here. Ser Schiavoni," he explained to the rest of the guests, "was not only a physician of rare skill and talent, but an alchemist as well. His daughter inherited all his notes. Tell me, signora Ginevra, when will that manuscript be ready for the press? The more I glimpse of your father's mind, the more I want to see. Let it be completed soon, very soon."

"It is ready now," the bride replied, "except for one thing. My father's most important discovery was a medicine made from something like yeast, which as you know is a living thing and must be nurtured and fed. It had the properties of curing many infections and diseases, both in wounds and in the vitals. When our traveling party was attacked by bandits, the bottle with the culture of…yeast was broken, and all its virtue spilt out into the thirsty ground. I am trying to find a replacement for it, but it is not so easily come by. I would not want to print the book without having on hand the means of proving it."

"Search as hard as may be, then! To be sure, this is exquisite." Lorenzo ate more iced cream.

The conversation dropped to murmurs again, and Caterina spooned up some more iced cream, looking around at the commoners enjoying theirs at the same time. What sort of statement was Ser Mario making with this iced cream? There was a deeper meaning to it, one that had to be searched out. Ah—this was about alchemy and what it could do. Instead of a exorbitantly expensive piece of folly, serving iced cream to the general populace was, thanks to alchemy, a luxurious treat for a special day. Alchemy had purposes and uses beyond the quest to turn lead into gold. It could give everyone a taste, literally, of something wonderful, and perhaps it could do more.

She was intrigued. Whatever the women of the Auditore did to pass the time, it was a lot more interesting than hemming endless piles of sheets and pillowcases. Perhaps the time she spent here would not be as tedious as she feared.

* * *

A/N: While I don't know the exact details of Caterina's first wedding feast, I read about those held in other aristocratic families at the time and drew from contemporary accounts. True vanilla is made from the seed pods of a certain orchid, but ethyl vanillin, or synthetic vanilla, is extracted from wood pulp and can be much more intense than the 'real' thing. So how _did_ they make the ice cream? Well, Ginevra's been making ether, which is an excellent refrigerant, used today as an over-the-counter treatment for wart removal by freezing them off. Most people would either pass out before the ice cream was finished or get so high they'd forget all about it, but Ginevra is immune to its effects.


	58. Sforza?

This chapter is dedicated to one-village-idiot, who asked very nicely if this chapter could be in a different POV, especially Maria's. Here you go!

* * *

Only once the swan was being portioned out and served did Maria allow herself to relax a little. After this came the dancing, which would take care of itself, and then came the tradition of seeing the bride and groom safely into bed. Always an occasion for ribaldry and joshing, what with tossing the garters around, (not to mention helping the bride undress), it was often too easy for things to get out of hand, but she trusted Mario would keep the merriment within socially acceptable limits. After all, he was strong enough to toss people out physically if force of personality and shouting weren't enough. And a lot of the jokes normally made at weddings, the ones which assumed the bride did not know what was going to happen, weren't applicable here.

Looking around at the pleased faces of the guests, and the somewhat delirious grins of the townsfolk, (partly as a result of the unlimited beer and wine, and partly due to their first taste of iced cream, which was almost as intoxicating), she smiled. There was her handsome rogue of a son, flirting with the lady on his right, and there her beautiful, gifted daughter, nodding at something Lorenzo was saying. There were her brother-and sister-in-law—who would have thought Mario would ever get married?

Yes, this was where she belonged. The grief and pain were only held at bay by the medication, not banished, like a newborn still attached to her by the umbilical cord—no longer within her, but not yet detached from her. Far enough removed, now, that she could become involved with life, and concentrate on those who were still with her, not those who had gone on before.

Having gone on retreat in the convent, she was surprised to find that it felt like a step back rather than a step forward. She had retreated enough, it seemed. Besides, the letters from her daughter, her new sister-in-law, and Leonardo convinced her she was missing out on far too much.

Dusk was starting to fall, spreading like a shadowy blue veil over the evening sky, and the servants were lighting the lamps, little stars fallen to earth among the trees. The musicians came back from their break and started tuning up for the dancing. Tonight the practice ring was a dance floor for the invited guests, with the piazza below for the townsfolk.

The first dance was a padavano, stately and slow. Mario rose and took Ginevra's hand, leading her to the floor. As unmusical as he was, he had spent his life learning how to move, and Ginevra was as lithe as a ferret. They moved through the figures of the dance with style and grace. After several measures, Lorenzo took Clarice's hand, leading her out to the floor, and that was the signal for the rest of the party to follow suit. Maria watched them for a while, remembering.

But too much of that was perilous. Best to let it lie, make new memories to lay down over the old…

_Now_ the question was, who was the young lady who had sat down at the end, the one in black silk? Thanks to her red-gold hair and some other points of similarity, Maria had thought for a moment that she must be Cristina Vespucci, once nearly betrothed to Ezio, but it was not her. This young woman's chin was stronger, her forehead higher (and consequently rather better looking.) Where had she come from, and who with? Catching Claudia's eye, she indicated with a flick of her own that she wanted to speak to her daughter.

"You need me, Mother?" asked the girl once she made her way through the guests watching the dancing.

"I need to ask you something. There was a young lady seated to the left of Signor Guidobaldo who I didn't recognize. Do you know who she is?"

Claudia heaved a deep breath. "Only Ezio knows for certain. I think he brought her here. Her name, the only name she gave me, is Caterina. Mother, I think he's going to marry her."

"What? What makes you say that?" Maria whipped her head around to look for Ezio, but he was nowhere in sight. Neither was the stranger.

"Well, did you get a good look at her? She's exactly the sort he admires, and then there was something about the way they acted. Not all lovey-dovey, but... I don't how to describe it. He said that her being here made for a long story."

"I don't doubt it for a moment. You can go back to your friends, Claudia. Trust me, I will get to the bottom of this." Maria set her chin.

"Will you tell me once you do?"

"Yes, if I can." Claudia nodded, and hurried back to the group of young, unmarried men and women who were pairing up for the dancing.

The padavano ended, and a gagliardo began. A much wilder, faster tune, not to everyone' s taste, but perfect for the unmatched. Looking around the garden, she saw the stranger lower herself wearily onto a bench under the trees. _That girl is sickening with something_, Maria thought. Being a mother of four had honed her instinct for spotting an incipient illness to the point where it was almost Eagle Vision. Working her way around the dance floor and the musicians, Maria made her way—.

"Signora Auditore," Lorenzo said. Evidently the gagliardo was not to his taste. "I am very glad to see you in such good health and good spirits."

"And I you, ser." she returned cordially.

"Thank you. Will you take my arm?" He offered it to her, inclining his head toward the gardens.

She could hardly refuse such an old friend, and moreover, one with whom she had so many intellectually stimulating conversations in the past. He had even dedicated a sonnet or two to her, back when he was still in his teens. "With pleasure, ser."

"Thank you again," he said, once she had slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. They began their stroll through the villa gardens. Most Italian gardens were very formal and geometric, with an emphasis on greenery, but the original Auditore who settled in Monteriggioni and built the house had opted for a more relaxed and natural style. The pathway wandered in and out among the trees, punctuated here and there with colorful plantings and ornamented with only a few statues, and those very small. Subsequent generations had known better than to mess with perfection. It made for a pleasant walk on a late summer evening.

Lorenzo commented, "Your new sister-in-law has more skill than five physicians combined. When I look at her, I regret that women cannot study in universities and become doctors."

"A few lines from your pen could change that, ser," she replied, her tones tart.

"Ever with that argument," he smiled. "Allow one woman in, and one must allow them all."

"Would that be so bad?" She countered.

"I will not allow you to draw me into this again," he told her, "Not today. Come now, let us speak of other things. How do you like having an alchemist in the family?"

"Since she has not yet blown anything up nor poisoned us all—Speaking in seriousness, I like her very much. We are too small a family to allow divisiveness, these days."

They fell silent for a moment, until Lorenzo spoke again. "Which I regret almost as much as you. What caused the initial rift between the brothers? I never knew."

"Giovanni told me that it began when he developed a taste for double-entry accounting and Mario did not. It seems Mario was a good student, but only when the subject interested him—history, tactics, languages— if it was anything that could relate to war and conflict, he was mad for it, but if it left him cold, he either couldn't sit still or couldn't stay awake."

Lorenzo laughed. "And Giovanni was a master of arithmetic. Surely there was more to it, though?"

"There was," she remembered. "It was after—after Federico was born—which was right upstairs here. There was plague in Firenze, so we came here to escape it. Giovanni and I wanted our children to have true childhoods, unburdened by any knowledge of the Assassin Brotherhood and what they must become. Mario disagreed.

"He thought they should know as soon as they had sufficient understanding, and start training as soon as they could sit a pony and swing a toy sword. There were angry words, which was bad enough, but there were worse to come. As soon as Federico turned twelve, Mario said that surely he was old enough now, and that Giovanni should send him here to Monteriggioni if he couldn't spare the time from counting money to teach his sons what they ought to know."

"Strong words," Lorenzo said. They turned a corner, and had nearly completed the circuit around the building.

She nodded. "So from that time until we came here three years ago, we had no contact. I know Mario regrets those words keenly now, but in all truth, I don't know if it would have made any difference, considering."

"Again, I insist we turn our talk to pleasanter things." Lorenzo glanced at her. "You know, this is the first time I've ever been to Monteriggioni. I never realized how well situated it is, nor had an inkling of how handsome a villa this would be. I took a stroll through the galleries—you've the beginnings of a very fine collection of art here."

"That is Ezio's doing," she told him. "For years I tried my hardest to instill in him an appreciation for culture, and it seems that some of what I said took root. He has a good eye, and is forever sending some new work or other."

"I would expect nothing less of your son. Good for him—a man ought to be well rounded." They turned another corner, and were now approaching the bench where the stranger sat from the other direction.

"I am proud of him for many reasons. Ah—if you will accompany me over there, I see a guest I meant to greet." Maria pointed to the young lady. She was sitting comfortably, watching the dancing while sipping on a beverage.

"By all means," he replied.

When they reached her, Maria began. "Hello, Please forgive me for intruding on your solitude, but—."

Lorenzo interrupted by suddenly exclaiming, "Sforza!"

"What?" Maria asked.

"Who—?" the girl began, only to be interrupted in turn.

"You are a Sforza. Your hair, your brow—nearly every lineament of your face proclaims your parentage. I knew the late duke well."

"Sforza?" Maria echoed. "_Caterina_ Sforza?"

"Caterina Sforza?" Lorenzo picked it up. "But what are you doing _here_?"

"At present, trying to come up with an adequate explanation," replied the lady in question.

TBC….

* * *

A/N: The modern day ritual of tossing the bouquet and peeling off the bridal garter have their origins in the ancient custom of seeing the newly wedded pair to bed, partly in fun and partly to make sure they got there so nobody could claim an annulment on the grounds of nonconsummation later. In the cases of extremely important unions affecting nations, one or more witnesses would stay in the room listening to what went on. Rodrigo Borgia was reportedly not only in the room when his son Gioffre consummated his marriage to Sancia of Aragon, but watched the whole thing, making jokes. Which is almost as bad as the whole Lucrezia-Cesare thing, IMO.

I would also like to thank Noor and Inspiration Giver for their reviews. You get virtual cookies for those. Thanks so much.


	59. Bad News For Everyone

Rodrigo Borgia was on the verge of admitting he had made…well, not a mistake as such, for his sense of self-love did not admit mistakes as such, but a tactical error. A misstep, as it were. The 'accidental' death of Raffaelo Riario on the heels of the death of Girolamo, to whom Sixtus had become more and more attached since the death of Pietro Riario, the count's elder brother and the pope's previous mainstay and favorite—had seemed necessary at the time, but the pope had taken it badly.

'Badly' was an understatement. Borgia had been recalled to Roma for a thorough, and thoroughly humiliating reaming-out. It had always been rumored that some of Sixtus's nephews were actually his sons, and from his reaction, that rumor would seem to have been true. The old man had been weeping while he ranted, his face both distorted and flushed crimson. It had been frightening to behold, because although his health was as good as could be expected for a man his age who was also troubled by gout from time to time, Sixtus was not young, being in his later sixties.

Should he work himself into a fatal apoplexy now, before Borgia had enough money and influence—no, Sixtus must not die, not yet. He had to be placated, soothed back into his accustomed malleable state. It would be some years before he, Borgia had accumulated enough of both to maneuver himself into the Papal throne. Pope Callixtus III, his uncle Alfonso de Borgia, had made him a Cardinal over twenty years ago, and since then, with every succeeding pope (three in all), he had had to scrape and bow and maneuver to keep his place in the administration. Fortunately, he was more than competent as an administrator, despite his tendency to skim plenty of cream for himself, yet it galled him that he had gained so little real power.

So here he was, riding back into Forli with orders to free Contessa Caterina from the tower and return her to her apartments in Ravaldino, reuniting her with her children and restoring to her all the privileges of a member of the pope's family, with the understanding that she was under house arrest. Exactly as she had been before he arrived, _and _with orders that she was to be fed. It irked him. Still, she ought to be properly grateful now, after ten days and more on nothing but bread and water.

"Your Excellency," said the guard captain at the tower entrance. "I am relieved that you have returned. The Contessa—she has not come for her bread and water for two nights running—and we cannot open the door. She does not answer, no matter how we call."

Borgia might have been interested to hear that he blenched visibly, even as a cannonball seemed to settle into his stomach. Or he might not have. That the Contessa was not responding could mean only one thing—that she had died. Dismounting hastily, he said, "Then get tools and break it down."

On entering the tower, he sniffed the air. While not as fresh as one might like, there was no stench of decomposition. Perhaps she was simply unconscious, or—"Has anyone reported a woman's corpse in the streets hereabouts?"

"Only that of an old harridan, who passed out in a gutter one night and drowned," replied the captain.

Then there was hope. Relying on the hand rails, Borgia hurried up to the door to Caterina's prison. "Break it down!" he commanded again. "I would have thought someone would have shown enough initiative to do as much without orders."

Someone had brought a pry bar and with much creaking of wood and groaning of hinges, set to work.

"Your orders were not to enter the room at all until your return, and to give her the bread through the bars," stated the captain. "You were most adamant, ser."

Borgia might have found more than a few choice words to reply to that, but then the door gave way with a crash. The obstruction proved to have been the bed, upended and wedged at an angle to block any intruders (Caterina was nothing if not resourceful). "Search it," the Templar ordered, unnecessarily.

It was a task soon carried out, but fruitlessly. Of the Contessa, there was not a trace, unless one counted a prune pit wedged between two stones of the parapet, and there was no way to tell if it were new or old. "Someone here helped her escape," Rodrigo accused. "Who was it?"

"Your Excellency—you saw for yourself that the door was barred from the inside." It was true, and barricaded in a way that could not have been pulled into place with a rope from the other side of the door.

"Then, pray tell me, how did she get away? Did she fly?" Borgia suddenly broke off his tirade to stare up into the sky, lavender-grey with the gathering night. He remembered the odd linkage of events that led him to conclude the Assassins had a Piece of Eden. He thought of Checco and Ludovico Orsi, how the latter had been found frozen solid on a hot summer night, and the tale the former told, of a strange device that floated. But the device was lost…or was it? And coming to the rescue of a lady was just the sort of stunt to appeal to a young man like Ezio Auditore, especially since he had probably killed her husband in the first place.

In any event, the Sforza bitch was gone, and he would have to account for it to the pope and to her family.

"I shall be revenged on you for this, Assassin," he said under his breath.

* * *

"First, you must know that what I desire above all else is—," Caterina tried to stand up, but the ache in her head became a vacant dizzy feeling and she had to sit back down again. "What I desire is that my presence be kept secret from everyone, even my family, to confound Borgia and his plans."

The feeling came with a high-pitched droning sound, and her head felt disconnected from the rest of her, except for her burning throat. "Excuse me, I fear I am not well." Her lips felt as though they were yards away from her brain.

"I knew she was coming down with something when I saw her sit down over here," Maria Auditore said, laying the back of her hand against Caterina's forehead. "Yes, just as I thought. The red in her cheeks is not rouge, it is fever."

"Fever?" Lorenzo stepped back a pace. "What kind is it?"

"I don't know—is your nose stuffed or running? Neither? Have you vomited or had diarrhea?" Maria asked.

Caterina shook her head with great care, lest it fall off her neck. "No. None of that."

"Have you pain anywhere?"

"I am hard put to name a place where I do not ache, but I have been traveling apace for two days, and supposed my pains were due to that. My throat is sore—."

"I am inclined to think this the start of an ordinary ague," Maria said, frowning in thought, "they often begin thus. Don't try and stand. If you will stay with her, Ser, I will get Ezio. He brought her here. You ought to be in bed, madonna, and I will see you there shortly. Don't worry, your secret will be kept." She hurried off with a rustling of silk.

Lorenzo helped her into a more comfortable position on the bench. "There, that is better. Tell me, briefly, what is going on, as much as you can. I know of your husband's death, and I must assume your presence here is connected to it."

"You might assume as much and more, since I came here with the one who killed him," Caterina said, bluntly, "and I suppose none will believe now that Ezio and I had no connection before. But that is the truth. Several days later, Borgia came to lead the inquisition into Girolamo's assassination, and fixed on me as guilty, not because he believed me to be so, but because it suited his grander scheme. That scheme, ser, was to deprive you of the support of Napoli and Milano. I was separated from my children, threatened, imprisoned and starved. Ezio rescued me and brought me here. We covered a great deal of ground, these past two days." Explaining that they had flown not just metaphorically but literally seemed too incredible to even try, and she was not going to get into the more intimate details.

"I see. No wonder you are ill now. Before they return, I would ask you something else. What do you know of the Templars and the Assassins?"

"I—." The illness seemed to be sapping her mental acuity as well as her physical strength. "I thought the Templars a vanished order, until I heard Borgia speak of them with my late lord. As for assassins, is not every killer for hire or ideology called an assassin? Beyond that, I know nothing." Ezio had seemed to speak of assassins as something special, but he had not fully explained. Or had he? Perhaps she was more ill than she thought.

"Any killer may be labeled an assassin, just as anything with feathers may be called a bird, but some are barnyard fowl while others are eagles. Did you not wonder why I should be here for the wedding of the obscure lord of an even more obscure town?"

"I did, at first," she admitted, "but you seem to be friends of long standing, so I thought nothing more of it."

"And so we are, the Auditore and the Medici. However, beyond that, the Auditore are of an ancient and honorable lineage that goes back beyond their noble name. They are true Assassins—trained to the hilt, keepers of a code of honor which is sworn to protect both peace and freedom. You could not have chosen a safer or more fitting haven if you combed the earth—and you have more in common with Ezio Auditore than you know. Borgia was responsible for the deaths of both your fathers. Remember that…"

* * *

I was none too pleased to be woken up so early the day after my wedding, but I couldn't ignore the knocking, especially since Annetta sounded so worried. "Signora? Signora Ginevra?" she said through the closed door. "I'm so sorry, signora, but Donna Maria says you are wanted most desperately. One of the guests has been taken ill. Very ill."

"Mmmph," I managed, sitting up. "I didn't know anyone was spending the night."

"What's that?" Mario asked. "Whoever it is was likely too drunk to sit a horse and now he's hung over. All he needs is a hair of the dog that bit him. Don't go…" He caught me around the waist and did his best to pull me back into bed.

"I beg your pardon, Ser Mario," Annetta apologized. Luckily the door was still closed. "It is a lady who was taken ill and she's got a bad fever. Please, signora, won't you come?"

"I will, just as soon as I'm dressed." I told her, sliding out from under the covers. "What on earth is stuck to my backside?" I asked Mario.

"It's the lucky florin," he said, reaching over to pick it off my skin and cop a feel at the same time. Some cultures had the bride put a sixpence in her shoe and others put the coin directly in the bed, but it was meant to ensure prosperity and fertility. "Come lay down again, Micina. Let them get the dottore, that's what he's there for."

"I'd like nothing better," I told him, looking around for the clothes press. This was the first time I woke up in the big bedroom, and I wasn't used to it yet. "But Maria wouldn't send for me this morning of all mornings if it weren't serious. Whoever it is must be very sick."

She was. Since she was sitting on the edge of her bed, curled up around a ball of pain in her chest and coughing up wads of phelgm into a basin, I didn't recognize her at first. Her hair was soaked with sweat, her skin pallid as something usually found under a rock. What I could tell was that she was running a fever of 104, she was as clammy as a gym shoe after a half K run, and, upon scanning her further, that the lower alveoli of both lungs were sloshing with fluid and particulates. Some more of which she hawked into the basin while I watched. Her sputum was crawling with streptococcus pneumoniae.

Her breath hitched, and she let out a moan of agony. "Please—please, make this stop. Help me!"

"This is my cousin's daughter, Caterina de Amalfi." Maria said, slightly too loudly and slightly too distinctly. I found out when the girl looked up from the basin.

Oh, this was bad. This was doubleplus ungood, to borrow from Orwell's 1984. Because while streptococcus pneumoniae can cause several different illnesses, including acute sinusitis, otitis media, meningitis, bacteremia, sepsis, osteomyelitis, septic arthritis, endocarditis, peritonitis, pericarditis, cellulitis, and brain abscess, what it is mainly known for causing is, as its name suggests, pneumonia. And pneumonia was what would kill Caterina Sforza, only in my timeline it did so when she was forty-seven.

Here and now, she was just seventeen. That should have given her the advantage of youth and strength, but anyone could clearly see she was already worn down to the last thin threads. She'd had a baby within the last five weeks, and from the slackness of her skin, had lost significant weight very rapidly. Add that to a natural susceptibility, and the prognosis was not good.

What she needed to recover was rest, fluids, and a course of oral antibiotics.

Rest we could supply. Fluids we had plenty of.

Oral antibiotics—there we were shit-out-of-luck.

I'd been hunting for a suitable mold to culture for six weeks and nobody had put spade to earth as yet in the excavation of Pompeii. I'd even tried to get my credenza to produce any antibiotic at all in the hopes that I could then reverse-engineer a culture from that, and failed.

Without antibiotics, the fluid in her lungs would build up and up until she drowned on dry land.

What the hell was I going to do?

* * *

A/N: Thank you, Noor! I saw Claudia as somebody stuck in one place mentally and emotionally, not just physically. Behind that desk for twenty plus years! So I wanted to enlarge her world in a lot of ways. I'm glad you saw that and enjoyed it.


	60. Mario Objects Vociferously

The camera opens on a beautiful beach, with sparkling sands and turquoise water, with a young man,(slightly sunburnt), centered in the shot. "Good evening. Shaun Hastings here again. Tonight, we continue our search for Sigismundo Schiavoni on the island of Cyprus, reputedly the birthplace of Aphrodite, Greek goddess of love…" Hastings looks offscreen and speaks to someone out of sight. "Look, I don't care what the producers want. I'm not saying all that, it'll make me sound like a cheap shill for the local Bureau of Tourism. Either I do this my way or I'm walking off. Yeah? Well, they're a bunch of wankers, and you can tell them so from me."

He turns back to the camera. "Sorry about that. Yes, Cyprus is lovely. It's also overrun with tourists, parched for fresh water, and I think I'm coming down with sun poisoning, so let's get on with it. People have been living here since 10,000 BCE, and the first thing they did was do away with all the dwarf hippos and dwarf elephants, according to the fossil records. Aren't we humans lovely? You can thank the early Cypriots for keeping us from having elephants the size of Saint Bernards as house-pets.

"Anyhow, part of the reason I'm so peeved is that, as you'll recall, after spending so much time in Venice trying to track down Sigismundo Schiavoni's birthplace and parentage, we failed miserably, and trying to figure out what name he went under when he studied at the University of Basel in Switzerland, and failing again, now I'm here on Cyprus, where he spent five years of his adult life. It was then part of the Venetian Republic, so that isn't unusual. His daughter Ginevra was born here, and it was here that he made one of the most important discoveries in a lifetime of important discoveries. Up in the hills, he discovered a village where everyone was exceptionally healthy, as least as far as infections and diseases went. Of course he wanted to know why.

"It took a while to gain their confidence, but eventually they let him in on a secret: it was the blessing of their goddess. Up further in the hills, there was a sacred cave where they stored their fruit after harvest, and anyone who ate the fruit blessed by her would enjoy the same good health. Schiavoni was a devout man, and he did not believe that a pagan goddess could do what God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost could not. So he studied the fruit before and after it was stored in the cave, and he discovered that after several weeks in the depths, a fine powdery mold started to grow in and on the stored food. He reasoned that this mold was responsible for their state of health, and he was right. Taking several pieces of fruit, he cultured the mold, studied it, and eventually learned how to extract a substance that would cure 99.9 percent of all bacterial infections. He called it an 'antibiotic'.

"Here's the annoying part. While he explains in detail how to culture the mold and extract the antibiotic, not to mention his early trials, successes and failures, and even gives instructions on how to store it and prepare it for various means of delivery-oral, topical, injectable-he doesn't give the exact location where he found it. We know he was a talented cartographer from the map of the Neapolitan Bay which hangs on the library wall in the Palazzo Medici, but he didn't take the time to do so much as a sketch of Cyprus! And more, any evidence of his time here was eradicated when the Turks invaded in 1570."

Shaun Hastings grimaces, shaking his head. "This is what really gets up my nose. Wherever we go, however hard we look, the only evidence we have that Schaivoni even existed is his own work. It's as if it was all made up by someone who knew beforehand what would happen, be it floods as in Venice, fires as in Basel, or the Turks here-but we can't prove that, either. Because his achievements speak for themselves. Yet I can't shake the sense that someone, somewhere-or some_**when**_, rather, is taking the piss out of us..."

* * *

The above segment was never aired.

* * *

"Ser Ezio!" Someone knocked at his door with rather less consideration than a team of irate mules. "Ser Ezio, your uncle wants to speak to you most urgently."

"What?" Ezio asked. While he had been quite worried about Caterina when he helped her upstairs the night before, he too had been traveling hard the last two days, and the demand of his body for rest and sleep could not be ignored.

"Your uncle wants to see you now! I can't wait, I have orders from Signora Ginevra."

Still a little befuddled (he had joined in the toasts to his uncle's marriage with several of his compatriots among the fighting men, and consequently drank more than usual.) he pulled on clothes and stumbled down to the big bedroom. He knocked on the door, saying, "It's me."

"Come in," Mario Auditore said, and Ezio entered to discover his uncle in the act of doing something quite unusual. He was holding an empty eggshell in one hand while using a very small, fine knife to cut or scrape away at the inside of it-and when he squinted, his nephew noticed that his formerly dead eye was as darkly brown and clear as the other. As Ezio watched, Mario set the knife aside in favor of peeling a scrap of whitish membrane from the inner shell.

"What are you doing?" the younger Assassin asked as Mario tipped his head back, spreading the lids of his scarred eye wide with one hand while he placed the membrane directly on the eyeball.

Righting himself, Mario blinked while he replied, "A bit of camouflage, nipote, a bit of camouflage. We can't have people wondering about it, anymore than you want people to know you can take a cinquedea to the bowels and live." Floating on the surface of the eye, the membrane now gave the perfect illusion of a milky-white dead eye.

The former contents of the egg were in a saucer on the dresser top, and now he picked it up, tossing the raw egg down his gullet. "Never waste good food," he explained. "The servants think it's my way of coping with a young wife." The accompanying gesture, jerking up one forearm while making a fist, made it clear what he meant. "All that's neither here nor there, though. Would you care to explain to me why Caterina Sforza is lying sick unto death in a guestroom upstairs? The girl herself is too sick to talk and your mother is too busy in the fight to keep her alive."

"She's that sick?" Ezio started for the door but his uncle blocked him with an arm.

"Ginevra says, through a messenger, that it's pneumonia. You may judge for yourself how bad it is if you listen."

They were silent for a moment. A hollow coughing, which Ezio had not paid attention to until now, echoed down the stairs. "Has the dottore-?"

"Been and gone," Mario answered. "His jollops did nothing. Ginevra, your mother and your sister are tending to her now, but I've sent down to the town for a couple of women who're used to nursing." Pouring water into a basin, Mario worked up a lather with some soap and began spreading it over the lower part of his face. "Soap makes shaving easier, you should try it."

"Then she'll be all right," Ezio exhaled with relief.

"How do you figure that?" Mario raised an eyebrow at him. He picked up his razor and began scraping off his jawline.

"Ginevra has that special medicine, the kind she gave to you and me and Leonardo." Ezio told him, surprised that he had to explain.

"She has only the one dose left, and I'm not sure that curing disease is what it does. Besides, then we'd be stuck with the Contessa for the next two hundred years or more..." That thought was not as displeasing to the younger Assassin as it was to the elder. Perhaps that showed on his face, because Mario frowned in the midst of shaving. "Ezio, did something happen between you and that girl?"

"No! That is, not _everything_-and she wouldn't tell me what was wrong."

"I think I want that full explanation, Nipote. **Now**." Mario paused in his ablutions to give his nephew a very hard stare.

Ezio told him, beginning with the assassination of Girolamo Riario and ending with helping Caterina to the guest room, not omitting the intimacies, but not going into detail either. When he was done, his uncle picked up the can of wash water. "I'm sorely tempted to dump this over your head and then crown you with it. What were you thinking?" Setting down the can, he settled for smacking Ezio upside the head. "If Borgia has the slightest idea that it was you who rescued her, this is the first place he'll look. And as for the rest...I don't like the stable that filly's from, and that's the truth."

"What do you mean? Her father was the Duke of Milano, and a great ally of the Medici!" Ezio protested.

"A great ally, yes, and a great drain on the Medici coffers. Just because someone is an ally doesn't mean they're also a friend, nor does it make them a good person. It definitely doesn't mean you want them in the family. Galeazzo Maria Sforza, her father, was a useless, vain monster, a libertine, and a hedonist. You know me better, I hope, than to think I'd squawk about a bit of bedsport or having a mistress in keeping. I mean no woman or girl of whatever degree was safe with him around. Even his friends' daughters, sisters and wives were fair game, and he didn't confine himself to the willing ones or even to females, if it came to that. His choir of boys and young men were chosen for more than their voices. At Lent, when the rest of the Christian world gives up meat, he and his court gorged on nothing _but_ meat. And when it came to his death-he knew he was in danger. Your father warned him, but when he got dressed that day, he put on a breastplate, and when he put his doublet on over it, he thought it made him look fat, so he took the breastplate off again. He died because of his vanity.

"And yes, that was the duke, and not his daughter. I know neither good nor ill of her, but she was raised in his court, with him as example. She would have learned that if you're the one in charge, then you can take what you want or who you want, spend all you like, and put appearances above all else, even your own life. Ezio, you could hardly have gotten mixed up with a worse female if you chose the Spaniard's own daughter!"

There are people who grow quieter when they get mad and people who get louder. Mario definitely fell into the latter category, so neither heard Ginevra come down the stairs (nor Claudia listening at the top of them). Ginevra surprised both of them by saying, "This is all very interesting, but it may well be a moot point before long. I was on my way down to my laboratory to consult my credenza. Could you come with me, please? Both of you? I need to speak with you somewhere more private."

* * *

A/N: Galeazzo Maria Sforza, father of Caterina, was not a nice person at all, and even boasted of it. "(My vice is) Lust, and that I have in full perfection, for I have employed it in all the fashions and forms that one can do."

Thank you, Noor. Now I have an "Eziooooooooo!" Khan moment in my head too.


	61. Searching

From Rebecca C.

To: Promethean Media Group

So my camera crew and I followed Shaun all over Cyprus for three whole days with the mycologist, and that's when he really started slipping some gears. It didn't help that his sunburn had sunburn by that point. I did offer him a tube of Old Reliable for it, but he took one look at the ointment and said that Doctor Schiavoni was out to get him and he wasn't going to make it easier for him by using anything he came up with. It took four gin and tonics to get Mr. Snarky down off his high horse and into bed. He's gonna have a headache in the morning!

Anyhow, I'm starting to think that we ought to take this guy into the fold. He's getting closer to the truth than anyone has in five centuries, and it won't be long before he realizes the person he should be investigating is Ginevra. Either that or he'll come down with something and die because he's rejecting antibiotics, antiseptics and soap.

r3b3cca

* * *

I have no memory of mortal life. That's unusual among us cyborgs. Most of us were taken at a slightly older age than I, old enough to remember what event rent us from the world of men, the circumstances under which we were orphaned or abandoned. The moment we became someone who history would never miss. Usually the agent who took us would point to the rubble and carnage, even to the still-bleeding corpses of parents, and say, 'Look at that. That is what mortals do. Never forget it.'

But I was only a few weeks or months old when I was found. All I knew of mortal life was my mother, who kept me warm and full and dry and clean. My theory is that is why I am, why I have always been, so much more comfortable among mortals than most of my fellows. I have no trauma associated with my change from the one state of being into the other, and my theory is borne out by anecdotal evidence from my peers. Sooner or later, everyone talks about how they were recruited by Dr. Zeus, and almost without exception, those who didn't remember life before the immortality process were better adjusted to life among mortals than those who did.

So to me it didn't matter whether Caterina was a Sforza, a Borgia or a Heterodyne. She was a mortal in need of help. Frankly, I would have been a little more upset if it were the scullery maid who had come down with pneumonia, because I knew her personally.

In the meantime, there was still some hope. I was not a meditech; my credenza might have some alternative treatments in its database. "Mario is right about the late Duke," I told Ezio as we went down the stairs. Claudia was trailing behind at the edge of ear shot, so I lowered my voice a little.

"Galeazzo was a wastrel and a habitual rapist. I'm not sure whether it's in his favor that he was also a very snappy dresser with exceptional taste in music. As far as getting involved with Caterina is concerned—first let's save her life and we can debate about the wisdom of it later. I've given her some palliatives which will relieve some of her discomfort, but unless my credenza has some answers, I don't have what she needs most. It comes back to the antibiotics."

"So it is that bad," Mario concluded. "What are you going to do and what do you need of us?"

"Just name it," Ezio jumped in. "I brought her here. I am responsible."

"I searched for six weeks and didn't find anything useful," I began. "but when antibiotics were first made, when they had already found a mold that would work and were starting to brew batches of it, someone found a rotting cantaloupe just lying around with a different strain of mold that produced six times as much antibiotic as the one they already had. There is such a thing as grace or luck, whether it comes from random chance or divine will, and a new strain might have entered the area or an existing one may have mutated. I want to start all over again, but I don't have six weeks to go around searching for it. That's where I need help. If you could organize searchers…?"

"I can," Mario said, "and I will. I've got a hundred mercenaries hanging around the town. Now, I don't want to tell you your business, but when you were searching before, you didn't go around to all the houses, did you?"

"Well, no. Just to those people with whom I'd already established a rapport. After all, I have to live here, and alienating everyone by knocking on their doors and asking for anything moldy they might have would have gotten things off on the wrong foot." I explained. "And of course I took samples of everything in the house or on your lands."

"There's where you went wrong, Micina. Of course, some of it you couldn't help. You don't look formidable. You're pretty and small and young. There's a difference between you asking, and two big, burly, armed men going to every door and ordering those inside to get a sample of everything moldy. You'll have more samples than you know what to do with."

"That…could work," I said. "Yes, that's the best idea possible. If they could make sure to put it in a clean container and label where it came from, that would help immensely as well. And when I say anything moldy, I don't care where it comes from—the pig trough, the walls, the slime from the privy—anything."

"What of me?" Ezio asked.

"Even if I do find the right strain, I would still have to ferment it, and it would be best to have what I need all ready to go Given the equipment on hand and the materials, I'll likely need several hundred gallons of ferment. Barrels, overripe fruit, sprouted grain—I'll need all of that in quantity, plus a handy water supply."

"Ezio won't necessarily know where to get all of that, because he doesn't live here all the time," Claudia said quietly. "But I do, so I can tell him where to go, and I want to help. I can help with organizing the search and keeping track of where the samples come from, too."

"How long have you been there?" Ezio demanded.

"From when Uncle was yelling at you about the Duke's poor character," Claudia replied. "I don't know Caterina. I can't tell if I would like her or not, but I felt so powerless when Mother was ill, and I hated it. I might not be able to stand her if she was well, but that doesn't mean I can't have compassion for someone who's sick, does it? Besides, we're in business together, aren't we?" The last question was addressed to me.

"Yes, and with this one, we can use all the help we can get." With that, the four of us went our separate ways, I to my lab, where the only thing my credenza was able to add was that I could drain a pneumonia patient's lungs surgically or, less invasively but less effectively, use a syringe to tap some of the fluid. But these measures were meant to be used in conjunction with, not instead of, antibiotics.

That's what it kept coming back to—antibiotics.

I was really beginning to hate them.

* * *

A/N:Thanks, Noor! The Shaun documents are proving to be really popular, and so as you can see I've thrown another canon character into the mix. Hope you like seeing her! Don't worry , Ezio will still have plenty of passion. I loved the Da Vinci Disappearance too! Lots of inspirational material there, especially since I've mentioned the Hermetics in connection with making up a story to account for antigravity.

The history of penicillin is fascinating in and of itself. When Britain didn't have the resources to produce it in bulk (this was during WWII), production was moved to a facility in Peoria. Illinois, where it was discovered that a by-product from making cornstarch called corn steep was able to grow ten times more penicillin than anything they had been using up until then. Plus somebody did discover a better strain growing on a moldy cantaloupe that was just laying around. So all of a sudden they were able to produce sixty times more penicillin than before. Coincidence? Hmmm…

When Ginevra says it doesn't matter to her if Caterina was a Sforza, a Borgia or a Heterodyne, she is referencing the webcomic Girl Genius by Phil and Kaja Foglio, which I love. The female hero of that story is Agatha Heterodyne.


	62. What Dreams May Come

The Shroud, meanwhile, had not returned to its dormant state. It was too busy, especially since Gilberto, AKA La Volpe was infected with nanites. He was very close to being one of the True People. Thanks to random bastardy and genetic chance, however, he had some bad alleles which had to be sorted out, lest he pass congenital deformities on to his offspring. (Gilberto himself had not really noticed any effect of having biomechanicals, other than that his hair was coming in black again. For someone of his age, becoming twenty years younger was not as dramatic as it was for Mario.)

Leonardo was completely unknown to the Shroud, despite the injections, because his nanites had been nowhere near the Shroud and therefore not reprogrammed.

So it was that the Shroud hardly noticed when it was taken from the hiding place at Agnadello where La Volpe had secreted it. As safe houses went, Agnadello was anything but safe. The consequences would prove dire.

* * *

Caterina was dreaming. Her hostess, the bride of the day before, had several times that day given her a sticky draught that did not taste that bad and which loosened the phlegm and eased the pain. The last one had valerian added to it, to help her sleep. She wasn't really sure if it was working, though. She seemed perfectly wide awake. Although she did not remember when she had put on the flying machine nor why she was flapping around inside a huge cathedral while her stepmother, Bona of Savoy was sitting on the floor amid so many mice that it looked like a furry carpet, but then the walls started to melt because they were in the middle of the ocean….

But then a pleasant man's voice cut through the squeaking, "Ah. There you are, Micina. I was looking for you in your workshop, but here you are. Not run out of samples, have you? They can look more tomorrow, when it's light again."

"No, I haven't run out of anything except patience. Testing and testing and coming up with nothing—I was on the point of screaming, so I came to take my turn here." This voice was female. How boring this dream had gotten all of a sudden. She couldn't see anything and the conversation was tedious.

"Claudia says our guest hasn't been the easiest patient to deal with," the man commented.

"I'd much rather she was irritable and fighting than comatose or delirious," the woman replied. "Though that will come, sooner or later, if I do not find the right mold. You don't have to tell me that there will be heavy consequences if she dies on our hands."

"Disastrous consequences. If he finds out, the Spaniard will say we abducted her and either murdered her or let her die of neglect," the man said, heavily. "Then the Sforza will be at our gates, not his."

"How likely is it that he will find out?" the woman inquired.

"If he doesn't at least suspect, then he's a great deal stupider than I take him for. I can't say for certain that he doesn't have spies here among us. I know I've a feed man among his people."

"I will do my best to keep her alive," the woman vowed in a low voice. "I yet hold out hope of finding the right strain."

"Hmmm," the man said. "Then we'll have to face what happens if she lives, which is nearly as bad. Do you know what will become of her?"

"An interesting question," she demurred. "I'm not sure how deeply she's asleep. I couldn't give her a really strong dose lest she be unable to wake and cough when she needs to. It takes no especial knowledge of the future to speculate, though. Perhaps I will hit near the mark, who knows? Here goes:

"She's going to get screwed over. A lot."

That succinct and rude prediction made the man laugh. "Care to explain that, Micina?"

"This society is based, for the most part, on the idea that power and authority are male prerogatives and that only men have the ability to lead, administrate, and command. When you have a woman who is living refutation of that idea, who isn't just a competent placeholder until her son comes of age, when she can manage her lands in peace and defend them in war, and do so brilliantly—what else do you think the Powers That be will do but make sure she's screwed, and not in a nice way?"

"And her Sforza pride won't let her take a low profile or hide behind saintly motherhood, I'll wager." The man speculated. "But that's if she stays widowed. What if she should remarry?"

"I'll bet you anything she'll pick the wrong man as her second husband. She's just the type that would. She's aristocratic, beautiful, wealthy and privileged, so with the exception of her first husband, you can be sure men have treated her with deference, flattered her and praised her. She's smart enough to see through that, so she'll pick one she thinks is brutally honest, when he'll really just be brutal. He'll bully her and abuse her children because he'll be insecure under all the braggadocio. But she'll love him immoderately. "

"Ah," the man said with relief. "So I don't have to worry about Ezio, then."

"I doubt it, but….you never know. She may wise up."

"You sound as though you rather like her despite it all," the man observed.

"I do! It takes balls to do what she di—what she'll do. And partly it's fellow-feeling. I've certainly done my share of things for emotional reasons instead of sensible rational ones. _You_ know whereof I speak."

"I do," he said, his voice tender and conspiratorial. Then he sobered. "I didn't come looking for you just because I missed your lovely face, Micina, (though of course that would be reason enough). I've had a message from that friend of mine who took away that…unwanted article from down in the old well. He took it to a place that was supposed to be safe, but since then, it's gone awry. The article in question has gone missing, and I'm going after it. I am in part responsible, after all, not just as an Assassin, but because I told him to take it away. I could have just let him shove it away in the family crypt, but I didn't. I'm taking Ezio along."

"Good," the woman interrupted. "He's been driving us to near distraction with his hovering and worrying. But will you be gone long? And how far will you be going?"

"As far as Agnadello, at least, and mayhap farther still. I don't know how long. Until we've recovered it or we're forced to give it up," the man told her.

" I see. I…Somehow, despite your professions, I didn't imagine us being apart. Not so soon, anyhow." She sounded bewildered.

"It can't be helped, sweetheart. "

"When are you leaving?" she asked.

"In the morning," he said.

"Then there is time enough to say goodbye properly," the woman said, and from the sounds, she stood up from her chair.

"Should you be leaving her alone?" the man asked. "Where are those nurses I hired, anyway?"

"I sent the one off for her dinner, and the other will be here after nine to take over," the woman replied. "Caterina is not in danger of dying in the next half hour, so I judge it safe enough to let her be for at least that long."

Hearing her name yanked Caterina back into herself. _No_, she tried to say. Don't go_. I want to talk to you_. But it was a dream, wasn't it? Albeit a disturbing one, with words that stung like sleet, all the worse because she could recognize herself in them. _That will not be my future_. Caterina thought. _**It will not**_.

* * *

A/N: Thanks again, Noor! Your review came in as I was writing. As if I didn't have enough going on, now I have to drag the Shroud back in…

There really doesn't seem to be a good contemporary bio on Caterina in publication at the moment. That sucks badly. I don't really want to read the one from 1967 with the title Caterina Sforza: Virago of the Italian Renaissance (or words to that effect.) Caterina's second husband did hit her kids, at least once in public, and was eventually assassinated. But she did love him and went on a rampage of revenge that alienated her people for good. Her next husband was Giovanni de Medici, Lorenzo's cousin, and from them came the Medici Grand Dukes. She is one of Kate Middleton's (Prince William's bride-to-be) ancestors!


	63. Several Interesting Facts About Figs

For five days, we kept Caterina Sforza alive. Her physical and mental state deteriorated slowly on average—she remained stable for hours, then suffer a frightening plummet where she turned blue with hypoxia, unable to draw enough breath while in the throes of an extended fit of coughing. She never recovered to quite the same height as before. On the morning of the second day, Mario and Ezio left in pursuit of the stolen Shroud.

Some honeymoon, huh? Me nursing a sick girl while trying to come up with an antibiotic (very disgusting tasks, too, I might add, what with slimes and molds and stinks and pus-laden phlegm ) and Mario a hundred miles away, hunting for a artifact too dangerous to use _or _lose.

While I missed him, I wasn't incapacitated by his absence. I was much too busy to be pining and sighing—and yet the sunlight seemed colder, food less tasty, colors dimmed, because he was not there.

Near nightfall on the second day, I reached for the next sample in the unending stream of samples. I was still waiting to find the rotting cantaloupe (metaphorically speaking), that luck or grace or random fluctuation in the space-time continuum. Hell, if somebody from the future wanted to drop in and hand it to me on a silver platter, I would have accepted it, no questions asked.

Someone had brought in an entire bushel basket of windfall figs, some of which were moldy and some of which weren't. It was only now that the main crop of figs was coming into season. Since everything edible was precious in this world before refrigeration, grocery stores, and canning, usually someone would have picked these before they ever hit the ground, so I looked at the label. The mercenaries were only semiliterate at best, but I gathered the figs were from a tree beside an abandoned house.

I scraped off a bit of mold in a desultory way and shoved it into the analysis port. Not only did I get a hit, I got another internal alarm to transmit my findings immediately.

Jackpot.

Double jackpot, I concluded, reading over the analysis.

Most antibiotics work one of four ways. Penicillin interferes with the bacteria's ability to make cell walls, for example, while quinolone interferes with enzymes. Streptomycin, used to treat tuberculosis, prevents bacteria from synthesizing proteins, and the sulfa family inhibits folic acid production. This mold, which was previously unknown to science, both interfered with cell wall formation and was a protein inhibitor. A double whammy.

Under other circumstances, I would have done a victory dance, whooped and hollered and so on, but with Caterina suffering chills and fever in turns up in the villa, I rushed directly into production.

In a later era, the big pharmaceutical companies had come up with processed that greatly speeded fermentation—like, for example, oxygenating the tanks. I couldn't do that. I had no source of pure oxygen, no way of charging the tanks—which in this case were huge wine vats. All I could do was stir them frequently.

But six hours later—six hours is plenty of time for something to happen, given the life span of a mold spore—there was nothing. No fermentation was going on, not of my mold, anyway.

So I went back for another look, and discovered something else. To explain what I found, I have to tell you something about figs.

Figs are the oldest food crop known to humanity, cultivated for a thousand years before grain or grapes. Since I had access to Dr. Zeus' files, I knew that for a fact. Why? Well, they're very nutritious, easy to grow, store well once dried, and taste good to boot. They also have a unique symbiotic relationship with their pollinator, the fig wasp. The two evolved together. Fig trees have three different types of flowers: male, short female, and long female. A pregnant female wasp will visit male flowers, gathering pollen all over their bodies, and then visit female flowers until she finds a short female flower and lays her eggs.

Thanks to the pollen, long female flowers go on to produce seeds, while short female flowers produce wasps. The eggs hatch, and the larva feast on the fig's flesh, growing to sexual maturity. Only the female wasps develop wings; the males never leave the fruit in which they were born. Their role is to reproduce and die, while the females take wing to continue the cycle.

Only some of the figs in the bushel were moldy—the ones with dead wasps.

Well, if this mold depended on wasp corpses, that was a deal breaker. But if it just had a taste for animal proteins…

I went to the larder and selected a rabbit carcass which had been hung a little too long and was getting smelly.

Then I threw it in the vat.

This is not as disgusting and far-fetched as it sounds. In parts of England, the best hard cider was made by adding a joint of raw mutton to the barrel of apple mash before it was sealed for fermentation. The Incans made a drink called chicha mascada where all the old people chewed up the grain and spit it into a huge jar, then added several pounds of raw beef, plus malt and other ingredients before sealing and burying it for several years, by which time it had become potently alcoholic with an amazing smoothness and flavor, which I can personally attest to. Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it. I can tell you, there were no germs in that stuff when they dug it up.

It was the enzymes in the meat which accounted for the difference.

In three hours, there was a lovely, albeit fetid, scum of ferment going on. It wasn't all unicorns and rainbows from there, however. Getting enough broth to process would still take days. All we could do until then was wait and hope.

Later we discovered that we could fine-tune the ferment for a particular disease by using animal tissue infected with the relevant bacteria—a lung from a cow with tuberculosis, for example. (Please, don't ask about the ones for gonorrhea or syphilis. Just…don't.) The result was a targeted antibiotic that worked faster and better-and which neatly solved the problem of germs developing a resistance to a particular drug.

What I found wasn't just an antibiotic. It was a _smart_ antibiotic.

It wasn't perfect, though. Antibiotics can't distinguish between disease pathogens and beneficial intestinal flora. They tend to kill everything, and so one side effect is digestive problems. Eventually we had to come up with a culture of healthy intestinal bacteria to replace that which was killed by the antibiotics. Unfortunately, this culture had to be administered via enema, which was no fun for anyone, except the few who're into that kind of thing. But I digress.

It took three days to ferment. Three days of waiting and stirring the vat, three days of tending the ever-worsening Caterina, putting cold compresses on her head when her fever rose and warming her with hot stones wrapped in towels when the chills hit. Three _terrible_ days.

But at the end of it, five hundred gallons of moldy broth, once strained and processed, yielded about a quart of reddish-brown sludge, which in consistency, smell, and flavor resembled nothing more than a mud puddle which someone vomited into and then stirred. But it was an antibiotic and neither I nor Caterina were about to be fussy.

By that time, Caterina... the best I can say of her condition is that she hadn't yet had the Last Rites. Her skin was a very pale lavender now, pulled drum-tight over her bones, and one of the women who came in to help had taken a pair of shears to her hair in a effort to be helpful, thinking that it was sapping her strength. Short and soaked with sweat as it was now, it looked like nothing so much as the sodden down on a newly hatched chick, bits sticking up here and there. But worst of all was her breathing. She made audible crackling sounds, like a cat playing in crinkly paper-the sounds of her alveoli being forced open through fluid. It made my chest ache in sympathy, just listening to her.

She had not been properly conscious for hours, so to get a dose into her, I had to use a clean hollow reed. Over and over, I dipped the reed into the bottle, stopping up the end with my index finger once it was full, then angling it into her mouth so the liquid would trickle down the back of her throat, a few milliliters at a time.

By morning, she was sitting up, devouring toast and capon broth.

I think I have to count that among the top ten moments of my life.

But what I have wondered about ever since then, is- - was my discovery pure chance, like the rotting cantaloupe, or a rush job like when Dr. Zeus substituted plates on Fleming to make sure penicillin got discovered on time?

I don't know, but if by chance it was planted by someone and that someone ever reads this- - Thank you.

* * *

A/N: Insofar as I know, all the science in here is at least possible and as accurate as an amateur can make it. The relationship between figs and fig wasps is real, which is kind of icky when you realize the crunch in your fig could be wasp chitin rather than seeds. There _are_ varieties of fig which self-pollinate, which means that you don't have to worry about finding wasp parts in your fig cookie bars, and 'Black Mission' figs are one such variety.

My last chapter went over like a lead balloon, and I was wondering why. On rereading, I realized that I could have made it clearer about what was going on. Caterina, half-asleep and half-awake, overheard Mario and Ginevra talking, thinking it was part of her dream.


	64. On The Road

From: Forzare

To: Labienus

CC: Nennius

Sirs—given that you have taken possession of the payment as stipulated by you, we had hoped that you would, by now, have shown some signs of fulfilling your end of the bargain. Yet as I have not yet had any acknowledgement, at this time I am choosing to believe that you are hard at work mentally in devising some way of getting Ginevra to her destination without arousing suspicion either in her or in those around her.

If, however, you show no signs of action within one week, then on the eighth day, your 'Plague Cabal', through which you and your associates unleash fatal diseases upon the mortal population, will find itself checkmated. Your immortal foe, Suleyman, and his Compassionates of Allah will receive live cultures and full instructions for antibiotics, antivirals and antifungals capable of curing not only everything you currently have festering in your vats but which are capable of adapting to anything you come up with in the future. If you've studied those tissue samples then you know what we can do and how.

By the way, choosing a cyborg named 'Victor' as your walking, talking plague 'Vector'—not funny.

Awaiting your reply,

Forzare

* * *

Stepping back a few days:

Conversing while on horseback isn't necessarily that easy or convenient. Horses aren't simply mobile armchairs, but large creatures with minds and temperaments of their own. They need a certain amount of personal space in which to move, and some aren't amiable about being crowded. Some kick and others bite when forced into too close proximity. And if you're moving at speed, they need even more room to move, and it's even harder to hear what the other person is saying. So unless one is prepared to shout, or has some special talent for dealing with horses, it can be best just to wait until you've gotten where you're going to have that long heart-to heart.

Unless, of course, you happen to be Ezio Auditore. Ezio had a special talent for dealing with horses, even stronger than his Eagle Vision. Any horse he turned his attention on loved him, immediately and to the exclusion of all other humans, even the masters and grooms who cared for them for years. They did what he wanted, even if they were old or tired, fractious, half-broken or callous-mouthed. They came when he whistled, and nickered anxiously when he dismounted. What was more, this siren's call somehow acted on the owners as well, because Ezio could go right up to anyone, anyone at all, take their horse out from under them, and get away with it. The robbed owner might squawk for a moment, but then…they seemed to forget all about it. Which was not normal behavior. Any member of the Thieves' Guild would have given their firstborn, their eyeteeth, and one of nearly any body part of which they had two for such a talent.

As a result he and Mario were able to carry on an extended conversation while riding along without any trouble at all. "Is Agnadello far from Lonigo?" Ezio asked his uncle. "Leonardo's sketching his patron's married daughter at her husband's villa at Lonigo."

"Not so close as all of that," Mario grunted. "It's in the next province. Don't think so much of that as of getting to Agnadello first. This area we're traveling through, it's where Toscano, Liguria, Piacenza and Parma all meet in the mountains. You ran into Templar Guards in the Apennines, and they gave you enough trouble. Where we're going, there's a bandit chief who calls himself Il Avvoltoio."

"Il Avvoltoio? The Vulture…Did he steal the Shroud?" Among the things they had talked about (which by mutual unspoken agreement did not include Caterina) was what they were looking for and why.

"No. He wouldn't know what it was or what to do with it. Besides, my contact, the carrier, slipped by him and his men unseen, but he has special skills that we do not. Now, a man may be a bandit and still have honor. That he should rob rich travelers or hold them for ransom—that's nothing. But Il Avvoltoio doesn't leave it there. He raids the small villages, taking what he wants, and when he's done—there isn't a village there anymore. Then he retreats back up into the mountains where the local lords can't get at him, like a vulture on its crag.

Mario grinned suddenly. "It will be an excellent chance for me to see if you've been keeping in training!"

"What?" Ezio asked. "You mean you plan that we should take out this vulture?"

"Of course! There's an enormous bounty on him in all three riggioni. That means we'll have to keep his head in good enough shape to be identified. Don't worry. We'll be meeting up with some of my men in a tavern about twenty miles from here, and," he tapped his saddle bag, "I've a few surprises in here. Some of the things Ginevra has been making of late have many more uses than just what she uses them for."

"Such as?" Ezio prompted. Ginevra's ideas were dangerous enough on their own, let alone anything material, and it would be nice to know what his uncle had in those bags before they went into battle.

Mario chuckled. "Wait and see, nipote." So his mentor wasn't going to be forthcoming.

"…All right. Say, what about the plan to excavate those buried cities? When will the digging start?" the younger Assassin asked.

"Oh, not until spring, at the earliest. It's harvest now, and everyone with lands to look after will be busy bringing in the crops. Winter will be time to negotiate, hire, and schedule. Now, about this 'antigravity'. From what you said, it not only makes things lighter, it can act as a kind of unseen shield. You said a man bounced off it when you were driving the cart, and arrows couldn't reach you when you flew. Is that so?"

They discussed it for a while as they rode. "But why do you want to know?" Ezio asked, finally.

"I'm wondering if it could be used to defend a city against cannon attacks." Mario explained.

"I don't know. I can ask Leonardo what he thinks."

"Do that, if you would. Your friend—he's never gotten…too personal with you, has he?"

Ezio didn't understand exactly what his uncle meant by that. "He talks about his family sometimes. I know he doesn't get on with his father, but I wouldn't call that_ too_ personal."

"That's not what I meant—Ah, well, if you don't know, then everything must be all right. Your mother and Ginevra both say he's a good sort. Come on, I can see the tavern up ahead." Mario spurred his horse, leaving a puzzled Ezio behind him in the dust.

* * *

A/N: A short one this time. Hope you like it!

Noor: Thanks! Personally, I found Caterina's actions and explanation in AC:B to be unnecessarily cold and callous, after all Ezio did. Against the advice of Mac, no less. She couldn't even let him down _easy_.

Anybody here get Showtime? On 4/3, they're starting a miniseries on the Borgias starring Jeremy Irons as Rodrigo. I don't, but I'm sure it'll come out on DVD or Hulu eventually.


	65. Ancient History

Excerpt from Shaun Hastings' Blog:

…and so, Dear Readers, I am writing to you today from a hospital bed, having compounded my dehydration and sunstroke with so much gin that apparently I was in the first stages of mummification. Thanks to Rebecca of my film crew for bringing me my laptop.

It's moments like these, when I'm sitting here with an IV drip in my arm and an inadequate hospital gown not quite covering everything it should, that I am drawn to reflect on exactly how I wound up here. Six years ago, I was a humble assistant professor of history at an institution I will not name for fear of legal action. I was also going through an extended and vicious break-up, and in an attempt to save our marriage, my then-wife and I went to Italy on what should have been our dream vacation.

That was true, if one recalls the dreams one has about having sex with your seventy year old boss, the overflowing toilets and the thing in the back of the closet with the dental drill. She spent it shopping, while I went sightseeing. For lack of anyone or anything else to talk to, I started making and posting cell phone videos of all the historical sights I loved, with running commentary about what I found most interesting about them. Somehow or other, my videos went viral. When I got back to England, I discovered I had a cult following. Everywhere I went, I was accosted by perfect strangers who demanded I say something sarky to them.

Fortunately, I am hardly ever short of sarcasm, but my employers did not appreciate the disruption, and I found myself canned shortly thereafter.

Just as I faced penury, the BBC came calling. It seems they were looking for a new face to appeal to a younger, Internet-literate demographic, and I fit the bill. The rest is history.

* * *

Inside, the tavern was fairly typical of its kind—rough-timbered, dark, smelling of beer and smoked pork. There were about twenty mercenaries and half a dozen thieves on benches around the trestle tables, some eating and drinking, others trying on green and brown uniform jackets, livery for the armsmen of an aristocratic house.

One made a fist and curled his arm—the bicep popped the seams. "Too old," he commented. "And the dye job doesn't half reek."

"It only has to look right from a distance," said the fellow next to him. "And as for the smell—it's better than yours." The first grimaced and punched him in the arm affably.

Among this sea of masculinity was an incongruous rock of femininity—a matron of about fifty years, evidently noble or at least wealthy, judging by her dress. She wore black velvet with gold embroidery, and there was a great deal of it because there was a great deal of her. Her figure was best described as majestic, because while all of her measurements were generous, she was still well -proportioned (although that might be thanks to a good corsetmaker.) A few strands of improbably gold hair peeked out from under a respectable white linen coif, evidence that she might be other than she seemed, and to back that observation up with evidence, she was chatting with several mercenaries as though with old friends.

When she saw Mario, she broke off and rose to her feet. "Hello, lover," she greeted him. "Oh, it's good to see you. You are not going to believe what story these fellows are trying to put over on me. They're trying to get me to believe you're married!"

"Imperia!" Mario said in return, taking her hands and kissing her on the cheek.

"It's Lucia now that I'm out of the profession," she corrected him. "Is it true?"

"It is," Ezio's uncle confirmed. "I've been well and truly caught at last, and happy about it. How is your grandbaby?"

"Which one?" she laughed. "I've three now."

It was the mention of a grandchild that sparked Ezio's memory. Uncle Mario had spoken of an Imperia once, on the night he and Ginevra were betrothed. She had been 'the most expensive and skilled courtesan in Genoa'—and she had bedded his uncle at least once.

After a brief chat about her grandchildren, Imperia-Lucia turned to him. "And who is this young man?" she asked. "I'd swear he has a look of your brother about him."

"As well he should, as Ezio here is his son. Ezio, this is Donna…Lucia, an old friend."

"Molto honorato, Madonna." Ezio said dutifully. She had known his father, too? _How_ intimately had she known him?

"And likewise," she replied, with warmth. "I am glad to meet you, Ezio." For all of her bulk and years, her face was still pretty, still attractive. It was possible to see what appeal she had had, in her day.

At that point they were interrupted by several other ladies, (which was stretching the definition, as they had the hard-bitten look of courtesans de la citta, despite their modest servants' garb, fresh-scrubbed faces, and tidy hair. "Lucia and these young women are here to lend our men the appearance of an ordinary escort, " the elder Assassin explained. "A small army of mercenaries passing through the mountains is liable to drive off Il Avvoltoio and his men, but add a rich lady and her servants, and we will look like nothing so much as a flock of pigeons to be plucked. "

"Part bait and part trap," Donna Lucia agreed, showing a long dagger cleverly concealed in a hidden sheath among her skirts. The other courtesans nodded in agreement, showing their own weapons.

"I understand," Ezio said, "but why the thieves?"

"They've been scouting out where the Vulture nests and where he scavenges," said his uncle, stepping up to a table at the head of the room. Taking up a tankard, he rapped on the boards, getting everyone's attention.

"Hello, lads!" Mario raised a hand in greeting to the room. "It's too late to be setting out tonight, so everyone should take the time now to find themselves a jacket that fits, eat and drink your fill, but not too much as we're starting off at first light. Brothers of the Thieves' Guild, if I can have your reports, please?"

His uncle didn't seem to need him, so Ezio joined the men in finding garb in the pile of over-dyed and ancient livery, then fixed himself a bowl of beans with bits of ham and cheese in it. No sooner did he find a seat at one of the tables than Donna Lucia slid in next to him. "You will pardon me, I hope, Ezio," she said, "for seizing this chance to speak to you while your uncle is otherwise occupied."

"Of course, madonna," he said, as gallant as he could.

"It is about your uncle's wife. They tell me she is young—very young. I know you're going to think I cherish some great passion for Mario in my heart, because it's clear enough on your face that you know something of our past. That is not so. I have had a great many lovers, but few true friends, and it is as a friend that I value him more. He had a way of making me laugh, you see, and the life I led offered few enough reasons for mirth. No, the great loves of my life are my mandolin, my grandchildren and my dogs.

"But I do not care to see an old friend ruined. When a man his age falls in love with a very young woman, it is often dangerous. Tell me of her. Please."

Ezio paused before he replied, unsure how much to confide in this stranger. "My uncle once gave you a strand of pearls, he said. What did you do with them?"

Her brow creased as she thought, deepening the lines of age. "A lot of men gave me jewels over the years. I'm not sentimental about such things, or I could not have retired while I still had my health and some years left to enjoy it, rather than end up in the gutter. If it had any value at all, I sold it and invested the proceeds."

It was a telling answer. "You have no cause to worry about my uncle, Madonna. He and his bride took to one another immediately. She may look very young, but her heart is true."

"If that is so, then I am glad of it," she said. "He seems happy—but then he always did, such a jokester—and he looks very well. Indeed, he is hardly changed at all since last I saw him…Thank you, Ezio, You have done much to set my mind at ease."

* * *

A/N: Sorry this took so long. Real Life does sometimes intrude on ficcing. My thanks to Myst—hope you enjoy the look at how Shaun got his job. Noor—oh, hell yeah! Leo + Science = TLF! Kiate—thanks so much. I myself am bored by stories that focus on characters' love lives to the exclusion of all else.


	66. Strings To One's Bow

Borgia slept and drifted. He dreamt of lifting a severed head by its long hair, careful to avoid the mess, and lobbed it underhand into a pit of fire, accompanied by a sense of relief which was almost physical. He could not have said whose head it was, but when he returned to his rooms, there it was on the mantelpiece, staring at him. He tried to scream, but then the carriage jolted over a rock and woke him.

Sputtering and swearing, he jerked upright, looking around the coach's interior as if the head in question might be hiding there, watching him. He had heard that for some little while after being severed, a head might still move its eyes, its lips, but never that one could move around… It was only a dream. Were he to try and construct a meaning for it, he might interpret the head as being the Auditore, who were the heads, after all, of the Assassins.

Speaking of whom, he rapped on the door and asked his driver, "Where are we now?"

"About halfway to Montepulchiano, your Excellency," the man replied. They had gone hardly any distance at all yet, then.

Pius II had bought up his birthplace, a wretched little village called Corsignano, and poured money into it, creating for himself a pleasant retreat from the wretched squalor and heat of Roma. As a wise courtier and diplomat, Borgia followed suit and had built himself a palazzo there, to have decent accommodations when he had to visit Il Papa, and it was the closest residence he had to Monteriggioni.

Learning where Caterina Sforza was had not proven to be at all difficult. As Mario had surmised, Borgia did indeed have an inside man in the mountain town, a one-eyed thief with a fanatic's loyalty to the Spaniard's family, so much so that he would die for them if need be. The townspeople had quickly seized on the news that one of the wedding guests had been taken ill, and that her name was Caterina. While that might not have been very interesting, once they put their heads together and realized that this 'Caterina' had come there just as Ginevra had two months before—with Ezio, without any baggage, and without any explanation—well, she was too good a topic of conversation to let go to waste.

The nurses from the town added that the stranger had, judging from the marks on her belly, borne at least one child. All this and more the thief had passed along to his master. Borgia had come to reclaim the fugitive himself—or he would, once he actually got there. In the meantime, what was there to do but try and doze? The carriage jolted too much to read. Yet, if such dreams came of his napping, he would rather not sleep. He shifted in the carriage, and tried to find a comfortable position. Monteriggioni was still some ways off.

* * *

"—I don't know how we can make antibiotics affordable to all and still turn a profit, " Claudia said, fitting an arrow to her bow. "It takes so much raw material to make so little medicine. Even though it's spoiled fruit and bad grain and so on, it still costs. People have to feed their pigs something, after all." She pulled back her bowstring, sighted on the target, and I waited until after she let fly to respond.

"I know, but that was my first try, and the results were cruder than I thought they would be. I'm going to work on the process to improve both the quantity and the quality." I also wanted more versatility, so it could be administered in more than one form. "Until then, our other products will have to carry the costs. Which reminds me, I got this letter today. I was going to share it with you later, but you might as well read it now, since it touches on how we're going to fund antibiotics." I found Paola's letter in my belt pouch and handed it over.

"Your turn," Caterina called. "Donna Maria has seventy-eight points now, Claudia has seventy-three, and you've fifty-nine." Maria was using a lighter bow than Claudia or I, and was also shooting from fifty feet closer, to make the competition more fair.

"Thank you," I said, choosing an arrow. There's an art to losing at archery, especially when I could whup the pantaloons off any of my opponents. We had set up one of the mercenaries' practice dummies, and were shooting at it. Scoring was as follows: five for the heart, four for the throat, three for the groin, abdomen, or torso, two for the extremities, and one point for anywhere else as long as it hit the target somewhere. Women in an assassin family don't bother with bull's-eye targets; they're for sissies. Who knew when we might need to shoot someone for real? Not that I could. Not fatally, anyway.

Caterina had tried to join us—she loved to hunt—but she could barely string her bow and by the fourth arrow, she was shaking. Pneumonia takes weeks to recover from; she would be weak for some time. As she was now, with her short hair freshly washed and her gauntness offset by better color, she looked like one of Leo's more androgynous angels, all ivory and gold. I had to admit, she was beautiful, and it wasn't just her features. She had poise and grace, which, when it comes down to it, counts more than simply being beautiful. Poor posture and awkwardness kill the mystique.

If she were, oh, twenty years older and I weren't married, and if she were into it….

But that wasn't going to happen. "Right," I said, and let fly. In the throat—four more points for me. Another arrow—in the shoulder, two points.

Claudia was reading the letter, and now she said, astonished. "Five thousand florins deposited in our account in Firenze, and she'll take as many as you can make….She says lots of men buy one pill for immediate use and one for later, so you are the benefactress of half the wives in town, one way or another. What are these blue pills for, anyway? And won't you get in trouble for prescribing or making them without a license?"

"They're….a confidence booster for men. Something to prevent embarrassment in certain situations. I got the idea from that book Clarice gave me." I said.

I was skirting the laws already with antibiotics and my other products, but as long as I kept things within the family or in our circle of friends, I could get away with making my 'little home remedies'. The dottore here in town knew which side his bread was buttered on, and was going to handle the prescriptions for form's sake, but making and distributing for sale a medicine for oral administration was illegal just about everywhere. Fortunately, Mario suggested a novel and appropriate alternative way to get a certain product, my version of a male potency enhancer, on the market. Through the courtesans. Paola and I had come to an agreement by mail to sell the pills for twenty florins apiece, ten for me and ten to be split between the girl who sold it and the brothel madam. They cost only a few coppers each to make.

"If that means what I think it means, you might as well have a license to coin money," Maria said. "I am concerned about the future of soap making. You have so many demands on your time, and more every day."

"It's odd how that worked out. A month ago I had one assistant, and I was hard put to find enough for us to do. Now I've three," –the two women who had come to help care for Caterina really needed the money— "and we work all hours. I need more people, but in truth I could wish for more skilled help. It's my misfortune that there is no Alchemists' Guild."

"Perhaps you should start one," Caterina put in. "Not called that, of course, or else the ignorant will label it magic and you a witch, but something innocent. The Soapmakers' Guild, or something like it. I'faith, the city orphanages teem with potential apprentices, and it would be pure charity to take some in and train them in a trade as useful as yours promises to be. I should not be surprised if yours is the richest family in Italia, or even all Europe, some day—and I say that in all seriousness."

"If this keeps up," Claudia frowned in thought. "I shall have to speak to Ezio about opening up our own bank."

"If this keeps up," I said in response, "I shall have to speak to Mario about enlarging the town." (Which we did, seven years later, thanks to concrete, Leonardo, and antigravity, adding three times the space to Monteriggioni. That was also when the running water and sewage systems went in, complete with flush toilets. It took three years to complete and everyone thought we were mad.) "Caterina—I think your idea has a great deal of merit. If you 're still up for a ride this afternoon, I'd like to talk about it some more."

We three—that is, Maria, Claudia and I—had reached a point where we worked together very well. Claudia handled the money, of course, while I was R&D plus Production, and Maria—Maria made sure everything ran smoothly. For example, she suggested that the priest should come and bless what I was trying to do by praying over my workshop. Thus keeping me from being busted for black magic when Caterina got so much better so quickly. Now it seemed as though Caterina herself had something to bring to the table, which brought up the question of—what exactly was her future going to be?

The final score, if anyone is interested, was Maria—109, Ginevra—94, and Claudia—92.

* * *

A/N: Yeah, it's been weeks. Long enough for me to get bronchitis and get over it, and then some. Which is what happened. Maybe it was karmatic punishment for giving Caterina pneumonia? Anyhow, now that I'm no longer producing a death rattle whenever I breathe, I'm back in the saddle. I think. This chapter took me far too long and I'm not sure I'm up to my normal standards. However, I promise next chapter will be full of lots of bad-ass action involving Borgia. So, um, I hope you'll bear with me. Thanks.

Oh. If you like web comics, you should try Selkie by Dave Warren. It's a heartwarming tale about a single dad and his adoptive daughter, and while normally I avoid heartwarming tales like I do Twizzlers and for much the same reason—they both give me stomach cramps, this one is different. The little girl in question is carnivorous, amphibian, periwinkle blue…and utterably adorable.


	67. Lions, Tigers, and Bees?

Of women in power: There are two sorts of female leadership, examples of which are best drawn from the natural world: the hive, and the pride. The beehive is ruled by one single queen, and all the other bees are subject to her, toiling mindlessly in her service. She will tolerate no equal, neither mate nor child. If another queen should hatch, that one must fly or there shall be war among them. When such a woman rules, she will demand all homage, attention and flattery, jealous of every man's affections, tolerant of no rival.

Among lions, howsoever, although the pride has a king, it is the lionesses who are truly powerful. The kings make war upon other males, breed when it is the season, and otherwise do little but sleep and eat. The lionesses, some five or six, perhaps more, who are bound by ties of blood, hunt together, nurture their cubs together, defending the young fearlessly and with the full nobility of their nature. Women who possess the qualities of lionesses are tireless in their concern for those under their protection. Their strength is in their numbers, and in their cooperation. –The Princess, by Niccolo Machiavelli, 1530.

* * *

Although often patronizing in tone and tending to overgeneralization, Machiavelli's The Princess, companion book to his earlier work, The Prince, is remarkable in that it admits that women can wield power effectively and to good purpose. Many have speculated over the years as to the identity of the pride of lionesses and the queen bee. In the account books of Claudia Auditore are references to quarterly gifts of clothing, food, and sums of money to a 'Donna Marietta'. Machiavelli's wife was named Marietta. Was this his way of acknowledging the women who so generously helped his wife and children? -Celine Visconti, Renaissance Women: The Other Face of History. 1979.

* * *

"Even though it's a warm day, you can still tell the season has changed," I commented, as we rode through the town gates. "Soon we'll have to switch the bed curtains from gauze to velvet." The thought caused a small pang in my chest, because without Mario, the bed was too big and cold. Man, but I had it bad this time. Had I ever been so in love before that I missed not only someone's snoring, but their farts? (Not, I hastily add, that I like the smell of farts, because I don't, but they're incontrovertible proof that someone is real and there, imperfect and human. Not a wish-fulfillment fantasy.)

Caterina agreed with me about the weather, and we made some more small talk as we started off on our ride, with the necessary groom a discreet distance behind us. I glanced at her, noting the roil of brain activity. She wasn't sure what to make of me, and I knew why. Several nights before, I had made certain observations about her while she lay semiconscious and with any luck, in a suggestible state. I hoped she would subconsciously remember what I'd said and not make the same mistakes in her future life. Borgia and his son Cesare were going to stomp her into the ground during their mad power grab to put together a private kingdom and create a lasting Borgia empire, and she would never regain what she lost even after they fell.

Out of the blue, she said, "You cheated at archery today."

"How so?" I countered. "You had your eyes on me the whole time, and anyway, I came in second."

"Not cheated then, not exactly. You let Donna Maria win, and held yourself back so Claudia would not lose by too much. Why?" As fierce and competitive as she was, maybe she didn't get it.

"The real purpose was practice and exercise. Claudia spends so much time over her books that she's getting round-shouldered, and Maria's still getting her strength back. She really is quite good with the bow, but she needs more practice. If I beat her, or beat Claudia by too much, I might discourage them-and if Claudia won, she'd stop making an effort. You heard her vowing to practice until she was good enough to beat me. This way, with my losing, everyone wins."

I was treated to her icy blue regard as she thought over what I said. She finally came out with, "I have not yet thanked you for saving my life. As Hercules wrestled Death for his friend's wife, so you fought Death for me and won. I am in your debt."

"I don't consider it a debt," I told her. "In a way, you did me a favor by motivating me to truly work on finding an antibiotic."

"Nevertheless..." she said, "you cared for me with the tenderness of a mother, and you did not have to do so much."

"Well, if you insist on doing something for me, you could stop dicking around with Ezio's heart. I fear he's not quite up to your fighting weight in matters of love, and there was already one girl who found him fit to bed but not to wed. Break it off cleanly and with some kindness, and I will thank you for it."

"I-," she spluttered. (I do tend to have that effect on people when I cut through the bull.) "You can't-Go fuck yourself!"

I really must have caught her off guard. Normally she cursed much more fluently and creatively. "Already doing that, thanks, with Mario being away and all. It's a skill you really ought to learn. If you did, you wouldn't have had to tap Ezio for help." I was keeping my tone friendly and funny, not nasty. "Believe me, I am all for a woman's right to seek her pleasure as long as no one gets hurt, herself included."

"Did that pezzo di merde tell you?" she demanded. "If he did, I swear I'll fry his palle for him." It was about then that a closed carriage with an armed escort clattered by on the road to Firenze. Beyond a glance to see if it were our men returning, I paid it no heed.

"No. Mario worked it out from how he was acting, and hinted as much to me. Look," I coaxed. So much drama! I had to remind myself she was still only seventeen. "Ezio is two-thirds in love with you. If you can't make him back off, then you aren't the woman I think you are. If not for his sake, then for his mother and sister, who also cared for you generously and tenderly. Unless you're not just playing him. Sheesh, he rescued you from durance vile more like an angel than a man. If I was your age, I'd be over the moon about him myself."

"Enough!" she cut me off. "My heart and its secrets are my own. It is unfair of you to use my debt to you like this!"

"You were the one who brought up your debt to begin with. I had no idea you were going to be so wroth." I pointed out.

"I cannot marry him!" she cried out. "If I remarry I will lose my children. Remarriage is the same as death where they are concerned."

"Psh. That's an excuse, not a reason. If you really want to be with him, things can be worked out." It was at that point that the carriage turned and came back in our direction. The three guards on horseback spurred their steeds into a gallop, only to swoop down on us.

The groom, distracted by our argument, died for his dereliction of duty, slashed open from neck to guts by a bruiser of a man. The other two goons on horseback went for Caterina. I urged my mount forward, in between them. "NO!" I shouted ineffectually.

"Stop that!" one guard commanded. I ignored him, wrested his sword from his hand, and smacked his horse on the rump with the flat, spooking it. The bruiser flashed past on his horse, and cut my horse's throat along the way, messily.

It was not a clean cut, nor deep. Blood spurted out everywhere, including on me, and my horse bucked and fought in its panic for several confused moments before rearing up and falling over dead, trapping me under it. By that time, they had taken control of Caterina despite her best efforts, and when I rolled the horse off me and got up, it was to see her being forced, still struggling, into the carriage.

The door slammed, and the carriage leapt forward. Looking around, I took quick stock of my situation. My horse was dead. The groom was dead. The groom's horse was nowhere to be seen. Caterina's horse was running for it across the fields. It was one of the old, gentle mounts anyway, it was too slow.

Time for a decision on my part. Go back to Monteriggioni for help, or give chase on my own? The first was too slow, the carriage would be miles away by the time I got help and got back. But giving chase on my own meant breaking cover.

Some decisions require very little thought. I took off after the carriage, and as I ran, I felt certain physiological changes, something I'd only heard of from very old operatives. The self-defense mechanisms they programmed us with weren't the only ones we had. Some of them came with the basic package of human genes. But they were supposed to be overridden, subsumed…

* * *

Borgia watched from a safe distance as his men accosted the three. He saw them cut down the groom, observed how the smaller woman tried to come to the rescue—he was not close enough to see her face, but he saw the fountain of blood from the horse's neck, saw it collapse and die. Caterina was taken prisoner—she did not fight nearly as fiercely as she had at Forli—and soon his is guards tossed her into the carriage at his feet. "Drive on, and swiftly. We must be back in Pienza by nightfall."

Caterina struggled to sit up in the moving carriage, and he got his first good look at her. "You look wretched. I'd heard you were ill, but not that your charms were obliterated. What happened to your hair?"

"Ah, Cardinal, ever the silver-tongued devil," she taunted him as she sat. "My hair will grow back and my looks will return, but you—." A deep cough racked her, and she hawked up a wad of yellow, spitting it on the hem of his garment. "—you will still be the same malducato impostore of a churchman as was ever born."

"Save your breath to plead for my mercy" he advised her, but further conversation along those lines was forestalled by one of his guards.

"Your Excellency, we are pursued," the man said, his voice strange and high.

"By who?" Borgia asked.

"Not by who, Ser, or at least I think not. By…what." the man replied.

The Templar was incensed enough to turn around and lift the blind that covered the rear window, and he saw… a Gorgon.

Leonardo Da Vinci, in his boyhood, once painted a monster on a shield as a favor for his father's neighbor. He took weeks to plan it, catching and buying animals to serve as his models, picking and choosing the most frightening features of each, and weeks more to paint it, going over it again and again. When it was done, he propped the shield up in a darkened room, called his father in, and waited. His father came in, and nearly fainted from fright.

He could have skipped all the interim steps and simply painted what was chasing the Borgia carriage. It was soaked with blood, its face a triangle as yellow as an old bone, and its eyes were huge and black, hard looking, without any whites at all. Its mouth was open in a feral, hideous grin that showed all its teeth, and its hair stood out in snaky, rope-like locks. Its hands ended in claws at least four inches long. And it was gaining on them.

"What are you waiting for?" Borgia roared. "Kill it!" His outriders peeled off to block it, but it opened its mouth still further, and screamed. "mmmMMMMMRRrrrOOOOOOORRRRRR-OOOOOOWWWwwwrrrr."

It was an excellent imitation of the warning cry of a full grown saber-toothed tiger. Humans were not the only creatures with genetic memories, only when they occurred in animals, they were known by a simpler term: instincts. Every horse in earshot bolted, including the guards' mounts and those pulling the carriage. Back when their distant equine ancestors still had toes instead of hooves and browsed in forests instead of grazing on grasslands, natural selection had favored those with enough brains to run like hell when they heard that cry, because those that didn't wound up in a tiger's stomach. The memory had been passed down, hard-wired into generation after generation for millions of years—much longer than horses had been domesticated.

Ignoring their bridles and their riders' spurs, ignoring the driver's whip and his frantic yells, all five horses took off in different directions, with disastrous results for the Borgia defenses.

The carriage tipped over on its side, spilling the driver off into the ditch. It was dragged for several yards before the traces and shaft broke off.

Inside, Rodrigo Borgia and Caterina bounced tumbled and jolted around until the box came to a stop, still on its side. Borgia found himself on his hands and knees, vomiting copiously onto the fine purple brocade his carriage was lined with. Caterina was little better, groaning and holding her head.

Then something ripped off the carriage door above their heads. It looked in at them. "Rodrigo Borgia," it croaked. "I want a word with you." Reaching down, it picked Caterina up with no more trouble than a mother cat would move her kitten, and put her down on the ground with the same care. Then it dropped down into the box with him.

Seizing the cross on his chest, Borgia held it forward in the hope it might ward off the Gorgon. "Pater noster qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum—." he began.

"Ah, the Lord's Prayer," the creature said. It was female in contour, and clothed like a woman, but it was in no way soft or feminine. "Shall we say it together? I'd be delighted. I know it in over a thousand languages. How many do _you_ know?" Without waiting for his response, it reached out for the cross, bend its fingers around the arms—and crumpled the gold into a wad.

Somehow its intelligence, its rationality, was even more terrifying than if it was a ravening mindless thing.

"Listen to me now, Borgia. This place, Monteriggioni. Is _mine_. These people. Are _mine_. The Auditore. Are _mine_. These lands. Are _mine_. This woman. Is _mine_. If you or yours come nigh them again, I _will_ rip off your arm. And beat you. To death. With the wet end. Do you understand me?"

He was paralyzed as if the glittering black gaze of its inhuman eyes really had turned him to stone.

"Do you understand me? Nod or blink or _something_." He summoned up a slight nod from somewhere. "_Very_ good. Do you _believe _me?" He nodded again.

"Better still. Good bye." It drew back its fist, and then all was blackness.

* * *

A/N: Again, the books quoted at the beginning are my own invention. Machaivelli did write The Prince, and while he was a brilliant writer, as a husband and father, he fell short of the mark-they were always in want. Partly it was because he had to dress nice to work for Borgia, so I'm a little sour at him for that reason. The story about Leonardo's monster may be apocryphal, but it's a good story and it might be true after all. What happened to Ginevra is straight from a short story by Kage Baker, 'Facts Relating To The Arrest of Dr. Kalugin'. She'll explain it in the next chapter. It usually only happens when one immortal fights another physically, but the Shroud's been messing with her programming. Borgia won't recognize her when he sees her again, but this is the first meeting that she still winces about.

Has everybody heard that the next AC game will be out in November? It'll be called Assassin's Creed: Revelations. They say it's the last chapter with Ezio as the main character, and he'll be going to Constantinople. Now I have that old They Might Be Giants song stuck in my head…

Thanks to all the readers who are still with me. Noor, you were absolutely right to pick up on those archery scores, as you will know by the time you read this. And you pegged it when you wrote about watching old TV shows. I went through a lot of past season episodes of Bones.


	68. Boys Will Be Boys, Girls Will Be Girls

Excerpt from Leonardo and The Wonderful Town, Diana Ritter, pub 1999. Children's Literature, suitable for ages 5-8.

…Leonardo had some friends, a family who lived in a big house called a villa, in a town far out in the country, and he liked to visit them there. He worked on several of his paintings at their house. We know what his friends looked like because he put them into one of his paintings, The Wedding At Cana. It was a wedding present, and to make it even more special, the bride and groom in the painting were really the bride and groom! Their names were Ginevra and Mario. He was much older than she was, but they had a very happy marriage.

If you look at the reproduction, you will see Mario's niece Claudia and her mother Maria seated to the right, and the young man on the left who is looking out at us was Mario's nephew Ezio, Leonardo's best friend. What do you think he is thinking?

Leonardo also put himself into the painting. He is the young man playing a musical instrument and singing off to the left. He was about twenty-eight when he started painting this, and as you can see he was very handsome and liked fancy clothes. It took a long time for him to finish it, because he wanted it to be as perfect as he could make it, and even after he gave it to Ginevra and Mario, he wasn't quite finished. Sometimes when he visited he would get out his paints and start working on it again, years later! Finally they had to lock it away so he wouldn't make any more changes.

One reason that we have so many of his models, sketches, and notebooks is because he asked his friends if he could store his things at their house. He traveled a lot, and he didn't want his works to get lost or broken. He trusted his friends would keep his masterpieces safe. And they did.

* * *

Ohhhhh boy. Could this ever lead to trouble… Standing over Borgia's limp and unconscious form, I started biting my nails frantically. Not because it was a nervous habit of mine, but because they'd grown several inches longer when I went into…call it hyperdefense mode, and I needed to get rid of the excess. The world looked grey and dull to my eyes, because nanites had formed a hard, dark protective lens over the cornea, but the effect was already beginning to thin out as I calmed down. Pure monkey-brain stuff—my lips had peeled back to bare my teeth, my hair stood on end to make me look bigger—although it was glued together in clumps by horse blood, which I'm sure only added to the horror. My skin was warming up again—the small surface capillaries collapsed to maximize oxygen flow to the brain and the heart, making me look as yellow and dried-out as old parchment. All of that was interesting from a medical standpoint, perhaps, but right now I had more immediate problems.

The most pressing of which was lying on the ground right there, pretending to have swooned. Caterina wasn't fooling me, however. Her heart rate, blood pressure, and brain activity all told me she was shamming. If she were family, either an Auditore or an Assassin, I would probably have explained, tried to talk her down, but she wasn't, so I wasn't. But I couldn't leave her as she was, so I touched her temples gently—she flinched just a hair when I did—and delivered a pizeoelectric shock that sent her into a seizure while also disrupting her short-term memory. Problem temporarily solved—she simply wouldn't remember.

Problem number two was still in the ruins of the carriage. What to do about Rodrigo Borgia? My threat was as empty as the Monteriggioni well, alas. I could not willfully hurt a hair on his head as he lay there. But—I looked over to the ditch by the roadside. There was the carriage driver, stone dead. I hadn't killed him on purpose. Gravity, momentum and an unfortunately placed rock had done that, but my actions had set it in motion. I went over and pried up the rock, which was more like a small boulder.

Returning to the carriage, I held it over Borgia's head. It was heavy enough and large enough to stave in his skull. All I had to do was let go, just let it fall…

But I couldn't. Not for the lives and safety of all those I loved, not for the freedom of thousands of natives in the Americas, not for the world. Damn my makers, my masters, at the other end of time, sniveling and spiritless worms, collecting manuscripts they couldn't read and works of art they didn't dare look at. Creeped out by their own bodily functions, sealed up in their cozy hermetic cocoons…

I tossed the rock away. What would Borgia do as a result of this little fiasco? He could charge the Auditore with consorting with demons, practicing witchcraft, yadda yadda. But would he? How would he explain away kidnapping and murder? Not to mention that he was a Templar, and the Templars were under indictment. Exposure would hurt him as much, or more, than us.

If he were afraid enough—of course I could have just zapped him too, but that would have left him with no memory of having tried and failed to abduct Caterina. He would certainly try again. Besides, I didn't want to waste a perfectly good threat, perhaps the best I had ever come up with. Going back to the ditch, I looked down at the driver. He was dead, all right. He wouldn't feel it, and he didn't feel it, when I tore off his right arm as neatly as I could. Returning to the carriage, I placed it where Borgia could not help but see it the moment he opened his eyes. Nothing like a little positive reinforcement… What else could I do to put the fear of me into him? Searching around for a moment in the carriage, I came up with his lap desk, complete with a carved onyx inkwell, quill and paper. Aaah, ink and quills, what a mess. Pencils, that's what this era needed. Good old wood and graphite pencils—another thing we could make and sell. Pity rubber wasn't available, for erasers and other things. I wrote a couple of lines, folded the paper, and put it in the dead man's hand.

Then I levered myself out of the broken carriage again. Borgia's men had got control over their steeds again. They were not very near, not yet, but they would be soon and I had already thrashed my throat twice yowling at them. I'm not a glutton for punishment, so I scooped Caterina up over my shoulder in a fireman's carry, and headed off into the trees.

* * *

Cesare sat on the edge of the fountain in the courtyard, and amused himself by tossing pebbles into the water, watching the ripples spread. He was wondering how babies were born, because his sister had been born yesterday and he didn't understand how. He knew she had been growing inside Mama's tummy, and now she had somehow come out, but how? His brother Giovanni said that a woman's navel hole opened up like a clamshell, and the midwife reached in and took the baby out, but he didn't believe that. He distrusted everything Giovanni said, because when his brother didn't know something he made stuff up so he wouldn't sound stupid. Which only made him sound stupider.

Besides, if it was that simple, why had it taken hours and hours? It had been…well, it had been very scary, actually, because Mama had screamed and screamed like she was being murdered. Sometimes mothers died having babies, everyone knew that, and Nursie wasn't there, she was busy helping.

But Mama hadn't died. At least, not yet, and he had been allowed a glimpse of the new baby. He wasn't impressed. She was a funny color, purplish-red like Papa's robes, and all squashed-looking. Very ugly, in fact, although all the women, Mama and Nursie included, said she was beautiful. He'd also asked, "Where's her cazzo?", because that was before she had her diaper on, and he was shocked to see that she didn't have anything between her legs, just a kind of line. All the women laughed and said that girls didn't have cazzos or palle, that was what made them girls.

Her name was probably going to be Lucrezia, after some lady in ancient times. Anyway, now that she was born, nobody had any time for him, even though he was a boy and everybody knew boys were better than girls.

How did girls make pipi, since they didn't have cazzos? Giovanni said they had holes down there instead, and that was where the pipi came out. He didn't believe that, either, because if all they had was holes, what was to stop the pipi from coming out all the time? Although, maybe it was like having a second culo, and they saved up pipi to let it all out just like boys did.

Cesare stopped tossing pebbles into the water. It was getting boring. Wasn't there anything to do? Looking around, he saw Giovanni playing with a set of wooden knights on horseback. The horses were on wheels, so when you pushed them, they rolled along the floor. Giovanni was making horse sounds and battle sounds with his mouth, making the knights crash into each other.

"I want to play, too," Cesare stated, throwing a pebble at his brother.

"No, they're mine. Go away." Giovanni whined.

"They were for both of us. Papa _said_." The next pebble landed right in Giovanni's ear.

"Owww!"

Giovanni launched himself at Cesare, and the fight was on, at least until Nursie came out and yelled at them, "What are you two about, making all this noise? Are you a pair of savages? Don't you know your mother needs her rest? What do you think you're doing? Quiet now, or there'll be no sweets for you tonight." Muttering darkly, she went back inside.

"See now? You got us in trouble." Giovanni said smugly.

"Trouble?" Cesare scoffed. "No dessert isn't _trouble_. Look sad enough, and Nursie gives in. It's not like green willow wands across your culo till you bleed."

"But Papa's away," Giovanni pointed out. "So no sweets is as bad as it gets. I know. Let's go in Papa's study. He's not here. He'll never know…"

Far away, their father came to, and started in fear. A severed arm lay in his lap, and clutched in the stiffening hand was a note addressed to him. Easing it out of the dead fingers, he opened it and read.

_Felicitations on the birth of your daughter. I can see your house from here, Borgia._ _Wherever you are_.

TBC…

* * *

A/N: So I played fast and loose with Lucrezia's birthday. She was born in April of 1480, and I moved it five months.

Thanks, Noor! As you can tell, Ginevra has her own way of dealing with witnesses, and a good thing too. Now I have to go look up Cappadocia.


	69. Greater Than Gold

Excerpt from Greater Than Gold: How Alchemy First Transformed Itself And Then The World (Pathways To The Present series) by Robert Moorhill:

With what was essentially a monopoly on the market they created, the Auditore were making money on a scale which had never been imagined by the original town planners. Not only did they need a larger workforce, they also needed more room to expand the physical plant, but the famous city walls precluded natural sprawl, so there was nowhere to go. Faced with a town that was bursting at the seams, what did they do?

They popped off a note to their friend Leonardo da Vinci to the effect of 'Hey, Leo, if you've nothing on for the next couple of years, why not stop with us and put your mind to solving this little problem we have with a lack of space? Bring all your kit, and if you miss your current patron's attitude, we'll be rude to you at mealtimes. Don't forget to bring the parrot.'

Leonardo said yes, and for the next five years, he immersed himself in the task of turning the theoretical concept of the Ideal City, so beloved of the Humanists of the day, into reality. He served as architect, builder, city planner, and civil engineer all in one, and by the time he was done, he had changed the concept of what a city was, and of how human beings should live, forever. How?

Consider how lower-income workers lived at the time in Florence. The Florentine wool industry depended on hundreds of workers with only basic skills who cleaned, carded, and spun the wool for very low wages, without the protection of Guild membership. Those workers lived crammed into filthy tenements, drawing water from communal fountains and wells, cooking, when they cooked at home at all, at open hearths where a stray spark could immolate the whole house. Their wastes went out the window into the gutters, or into latrines which frequently overflowed, contaminating the ground water.

Fire, disease, overcrowded conditions, malnutrition, and the lack of fresh air, water, and light, all ravaged the population. Only the great palazzos might have their water supply piped in, and while flush toilets existed, after a fashion, they were found only in the homes of a few wealthy cardinals and they depended on a trench of perpetually running water flowing under them.

The alchemical industry of Monteriggioni also relied on a plethora of workers with only basic skills. Not much education is required to pour soap into molds, dip matches, or tend antibiotic culture vats, and it was to accommodate the influx of these workers as well as the young alchemists recruited from among the city orphanages that the town expansion was planned.

The apartment buildings Leonardo built for Monteriggioni's low income workers were designed so each dwelling had ample sunlight and fresh air, according to advanced principles of geometry which made the most of every angle. Each one had a balcony with room for a table and a couple of chairs. Each had a kitchen with a closed stove and small bake oven, and each had running water. Not only that, each apartment had a bathtub and its own highly sanitary water closet. Every dwelling in the New Town, as it came to be called, had at least those basic amenities, and some had more. Once the New Town was finished, everyone in Old Town moved into the New Town at least temporarily so those houses could have new kitchens and bathrooms, too.

With that, the modern world was born.

* * *

A/N: My next chapter is giving me fits, so this is a tidbit to tide you over while I work it out. Any resemblance to the Hinges of History series by Thomas Cahill is _of course_ purely coincidental.

Thanks, Noor! My favorite Veronese is his Last Supper, the one which he had to retitle Feast In The House of Levi to get the Inquisition off his back. (They objected to his putting women, dogs, buffoons, a servant with a nosebleed, and a parrot in the picture, finding it undignified to the point of heresy.)


	70. Upsetting The Onion Cart

They had ridden out on horseback an hour before; when they came back, it was on a pile of onions on a farmer's cart, which would have been absurd if Ginevra's riding habit weren't soaked in blood and Caterina weren't still confused and disoriented from a blow to the head. Maria hastened down the stairs in front of the villa to help.

"It's not my blood, it's my horse's," Ginevra explained, "but our groom Antonio is dead and the other horses fled. Caterina took a knock on the head when the carriage overturned."

"But what happened?" Claudia asked, arriving on her mother's heels, followed by several maids.

"My head aches wretchedly, and I cannot cease weeping," complained the Countess of Forli, "although that is due to this form of transport and not the headache. Let me get in and away from this smell!" The onions, while mostly wholesome and fresh, were onions, after all, and being lightly bruised by the two women sitting on them, they were releasing their distinctive fragrance in all directions.

"We were attacked—yes, that's it, Annetta, help Caterina down. Then get her a cup of wine with a spoonful of willow bark tincture in it, please—by a party of armed men with a closed carriage. I don't know who they were, I never saw them before in my life." The meaningful glance Ginevra cast toward Caterina explained the situation more fully. "They killed 'Tonio first, then my horse, and tried to abduct us. Well, they almost succeeded, except that I wasn't cooperating and the carriage wasn't very stable. It tipped over."

"It may be so, but I recall nothing of it," Caterina said. "I thought—were we not to do some shooting after lunch?"

"We did," Ginevra explained. "Steady there—There was a carriage accident and your memory's a little unsettled. Make room, I'm getting off." She clambered down off the onions and staggered, nearly falling on her face, overcorrected, and sat down abruptly. "What's—why am I so clumsy all of a sudden?" She sounded slightly frightened. As she got up, her hand went to the small of her back in a way that Maria, mother of four, was quite familiar with. Of course, it wasn't _proof_.

"Let's go in before anything more is said," cautioned Maria. "You cannot stand here on the street with blood all over you. Here, Ginevra, take my arm." If what she suspected was true, Ginevra was now in greater need of protection and care than their guest.

"I'm all right," Ginevra agreed. "but let someone be sent for 'Tonio's body, and to find the horses, if they are to be found. And Messere Benevento here, who stopped for us and brought us home, he must be rewarded."

"I'll give the orders," Claudia volunteered. "And whew!", she waved a hand in front of her face, "I'll also tell them to start heating water for baths. I like onions, but not _that_ much." She dashed off.

Maria followed Caterina and Ginevra into the villa, watching both carefully. Caterina seemed steady enough on her feet, if a little distracted, but Ginevra was still moving a bit awkwardly—which she had to admit to herself, was not unnatural for someone who had a horse killed under her, suffered a carriage accident, and then ridden home on a pile of alliums all in the course of one afternoon. If her sister-in-law were vomiting in the morning, it would be conclusive, but in that case, everyone in the villa would know already. The entire town would have known within an hour.

"I fear you will come to loathe us," Maria said to Caterina, more to make conversation than anything else, "and that the stars themselves oppose your sojourn here, for to be sure, you have had nothing but ill fortune. First you fall ill, and now this, to say nothing of what came before."

"Aye, and I would it were otherwise," Caterina agreed, "although I remember nothing of what…whatever it was that happened this afternoon." She frowned.

"It was Borgia," Ginevra told them, as they were now well inside the house. "His men grabbed me as well, I think because they did not know which of us was which, and henchmen are rarely chosen for their brains."

"Borgia knows I am here?" Caterina started.

"Yes, but I misdoubt he will be back again soon. He too was knocked about in the accident, and his driver killed. I dragged you to safety before his men could return."

"A pity you were not armed," Maria said, "else you could have put an end to all this at once, with one blow. You should at least carry a dagger with you, for occasions such as these. What could my brother-in-law have been thinking, not to have given you one and schooled you in its use? Remind me to hunt one out from the armory for you."

"I have my own ways of self-defense," Ginevra asserted, "When you start developing as young as I did, the men take notice just as early. Small things are not always helpless. Mongooses kill cobras, after all. I thought it more important that we escape."

"I meant no offense," Maria soothed her prickly sister-in-law. "I would have no harm come to you, not for the world."

"I think it more important that I bathe," Caterina said, "and think on what to do. Excuse me." She went up the stairs, where Annetta was waiting with the headache remedy.

"While we have privacy," Maria said, sotto voce, "sister, when last did you have your menses?"

"When did I—? Oh, some weeks ago, but I—my menses have always been irregular. Why?" Ginevra looked at her with curiosity.

"Because of your clumsiness just now, and because you are walking with your toes pointed out, a little like a duck. I know your father was a physician, but males are not always as wise about the female body as they pretend and you lost your mother young," Maria replied.

Ginevra smiled a not particularly happy smile. "You think I am with child. Believe me, I am not."

"Why not? Yes, I know Mario is childless, but I am a gardener, and know there is more to propagation than merely putting seeds in the earth and waiting. It's only weeds that spring up readily; plants with worth need just the right conditions. Given the strength and…enthusiasm of the affection you two bear each other, clearly you are doing something very right!"

Ginevra laughed. "That is the most ladylike way of saying 'at it like bunnies' that I ever heard. I would be glad to be wrong, but—."

"Glad to be wrong about what?" Claudia had come in time to catch the end of their dialog.

"Nothing of particular import," Ginevra dismissed Maria's suspicions.

"Yet wonderful nonetheless. Come," Maria told them, "let's go into the office. We must talk about Caterina."

"What about her?" Claudia asked as they filed into her workspace. "I thought she and Ezio…It would be a brilliant match, wouldn't it?"

"I sounded her out about that before the attack," Ginevra said, taking a seat. "I don't think it will happen."

"It cannot happen," Maria said, sounding harsher than she meant to. "I have nothing against her as herself; indeed, I like her. But she is too prominent a personage, the match too brilliant. It's all there in how she is known—not as Caterina Riario, her husband's name, but as Caterina Sforza, daughter of the late duke. Do you think Ezio can be what he is when, wherever he goes, people point him out as 'Caterina Sforza's husband'? She likes attention and admiration, and an assassin's wife must be like an assassin herself—invisible, or nearly so."

Claudia looked troubled. "But with our business, we are getting to be quite well known already, and we're only going to get more so. Also, I've heard people commenting on Ezio when we walk by—'Look, isn't that the Assassin?', and such."

"That's different," Maria said. "This is not an insult to either of you, but people will never be as impressed by intelligence, hard work, and keen business sense as they are by glamour, blonde hair and noble birth, the more fools they. For another, Ginevra does not come with three children and a host of relations all across Italia, and she has committed herself to us entirely. Besides, can you truly see Ezio as the stepfather to three children whom he made fatherless in the first place?"

"Perhaps not," Claudia conceded. "But who are we to say what becomes of her?"

"Not in the sense of her entire life, no," Maria agreed, "but in the shorter-term, something must be done. Now that the Spaniard knows where she is, now that's she's been seen and identified—she will have to leave as soon as she is in no danger of a relapse. Even though he's been injured and scared off, he still has sharp teeth and a long reach. Ginevra, when will she be ready to travel?"

Her sister-in-law looked thoughtful. "In—two more weeks, at the earliest. Long enough for her to finish the course of antibiotics and a week after that. But where ought she go?"

Maria half-smiled. "I have been exchanging letters with Lorenzo, fortunately, and we have formed a plan for such a contingency. His family has not one villa, but half-a-dozen. She will go to his cousins' house at Trebbio."

"His cousins' house," Ginevra echoed. "Yes, that might do very well, considering. They're young, male and unmarried. If she becomes fond of one of them, as she may, then she could ally herself with a family better suited to hers in terms of rank and well placed to defend her, and her children's rights legally."

"Maybe, but isn't the oldest about twelve?" Claudia asked. "Too young for her, anyway."

"Striplings of seventeen have married dowager duchesses of eighty ere this," Maria pointed out, "usually to the great merriment of the old ladies. Not carnally, I don't think, but out of humor over the whole situation. When you think of how little Ezio is likely to be here, and that he is hardly ready to settle down—well, I doubt they would be happy. A mother of three is more mature than a bachelor twenty years of age. Ezio's future wife has probably not yet been born."

"Wouldn't it be nice to have children here, though?" Claudia was unwilling to let go of the idea yet. "To have little ones in this big house?"

"For that I think you must look to Ginevra," Maria said, adding smoothly, as Ginevra drew in a breath, "if she can find some orphans she deems suitable apprentices. Did you and Caterina have a chance to speak further on that, as you hoped?"

"No, we were attacked first, but I have an acquaintance in Firenze who may be able to help, a woman who's a member of the Potter's Guild. Madonna Brunelli, who makes our lotion bottles and soap dishes. I know it's usual for apprentices to live in their master's household, but given that our situation is so different, might it be better to place them with some well-chosen families?"

"Both ideas have merit," Maria said. "We should discuss it further, but now, I have to say, you really must go and wash before you scent the upholstery permanently."

* * *

A/N: So—is she or isn't she? Not telling, not immediately…

Thanks, Noor. Yeah, Leo did it, with the Auditore ladies to ride herd on him, that is. A formidable lot, those women!


	71. The Elements So Mixed

One of the greatest societal revolutions came about as a result of breast feeding as an occupation. Namely, the change in who used banks and why. In Italy, and indeed in most of Europe, until the late 1400s, banks and the banking system operated solely for the benefit of the rich and middle classes. Those of more modest income dealt in cash or lived with the exigencies of the pawn shop.

In Europe at that time, it was a common practice for upper class women to hire wet-nurses to feed their infants rather than breast feeding them themselves. Some did so because they could not produce enough milk, others believed it would ruin the beauty of their breasts, and since it was a mark of affluence to be able to afford a wet-nurse's services, some did so to underscore their status. Since wealth tended to be concentrated in cities, it follows that many of these women who sought wet nurses were city-dwellers, and in the days before sanitation, European cities were breeding grounds for disease. Rural areas were healthier, although 'healthier' is relative, for infant mortality rates were high everywhere. As many as three of every ten babies born did not live to see their fifth birthday.

Bringing a wet-nurse from the country would have defeated the purpose of trying to protect babies from city diseases, so the children were sent to the country to live with their wet-nurses instead, on the family estate, when there was a family estate to send the baby to. Others were boarded with foster mothers for pay. The most famous such infant was Michelangelo, whose foster family were stone-masons. He was to say, later in his life, that he became a sculptor in stone because he imbibed stone dust from his nurse's breast along with her milk.

While boarding infants helped with the family income, the amounts were never very large—that is, until Leonardo da Vinci went to Monteriggioni. Once the plumbing infrastructure was complete, with waste disposal made completely separate from the incoming fresh water, the infant mortality rate in that town dropped to less than one in one hundred. Suddenly, if you were a lactating woman who resided inside the town walls, you could command almost any price for your services as a wet nurse, because it was a virtual certainty that the child would survive. They went from supplementing the family income to doubling it or more than doubling it.

So prevalent did this practice become that it had to be registered and regulated, to insure the nurses were not taking on more than they could handle or neglecting their own children. Among the rules was the requirement that half the fee had to be banked until the fostered child had been returned to their birth family, following an instance where a toddler died from a fall through an open window and the family subsequently sued. Claudia Auditore, who acted as the city financial manager and ran the local bank, is credited with having drawn up the regulations and making banking accessible to the lower income population.— excerpt from "A History of the Breast", Margaret Hewitt, pub. in Anthropology Today Magazine Spring 1987.

* * *

The good thing about scouring the mountains for an elusive bandit chief and his tatterdemalion band was that it gave you time in which to think. Of course, the _bad_ thing about it was also that it gave you time in which to think, and Ezio had been doing so, mainly about the fiery haired and fiery tempered Countess of Forli. Uncle Mario had a letter-drop arranged, and through that, he had learned that Donna Caterina had survived her illness and was well on her way to recovery.

Privately, Ezio had come to some of the same conclusions concerning Caterina as his mother had, especially in regard to the children. Killing their father and marrying their mother was hardly the way to start a family. Besides, when the boys reached manhood and honor demanded they avenge their natural father even as he was avenging his own father and brothers, what then?

Also, absence was supposed to make the heart grow fonder, wasn't it? At least it was if one was truly in love, and in that case, his affection for Caterina was no more than a passing infatuation. Away from her intoxicating presence, he recalled things about her which had sounded faint warning bells even at the time. She was haughty and demanding, accepting his help and then giving orders as to how he should assist her further. Getting involved with her was like finding brandy in your glass when you expected watered wine or small beer—she went right to your head, but left you questioning your judgment later.

Most of all, though, he had to look at the nearest and most recent example of two people who had fallen genuinely and almost instantly in love—Ginevra and Uncle Mario. Whatever was going on between Caterina and himself, it didn't have the kind of mutual support and accord the older couple's union had.

Ezio's horse continued plodding along the rocky path, just as it had for days. Despite their disguises, the Vulture showed no signs of wanting to swoop down on them, and things were getting boring.

Staying on alert for days on end was difficult, but now and then they came across evidence that the bandits had been there, to devastating effect—the burned out shell of a farmhouse, a badly butchered pig—and two days before, the corpse of a courtesan, dead at least a season. She was lying on her back when they found her decayed remains, maggots moving in the empty eye sockets, clad in the blood stained remains of a yellow silk dress, her amber-dyed hair still in the tied up top knots. Her knees were still spread wide apart, and flies buzzed around the dark void between them. Nothing was left on her to identify her. What few trinkets she might have possessed had been stolen—there was enough flesh to show where someone had ripped out her earrings, right through the ear lobes. The company paused long enough to build her a cairn, the courtesans weeping over the lost as if she were one of their own. In a way, she was, even if they hadn't known her.

A commotion up ahead drew his attention, and he spurred his horse into a canter to catch up. "What is it?" he asked, trying to see around the knot of mercenaries.

"Another body," his uncle replied tersely. "Worse than the last."

"How can that be—Oh." Ezio could see now, and it was a child, a boy of six or so, clad only in a filthy shirt. He had been violated grotesquely and in a way that made it all too clear what his uncle had been getting at about the late Duke of Milano and his boys' choir, with disturbing implications concerning Leo. From believing himself a worldly and knowledgeable man, Ezio suddenly went to feeling as naive as a schoolboy once more.

"He hasn't been dead long," Mario Auditore judged as he laid out the little corpse. "He's cold, but the maggots haven't gotten to him yet, nor the birds or anything else. Of course, he's so small it would take hardly any time for him to cool off. We're near them now."

Dismounting, Ezio took off his drab disguise cloak, offering it as a shroud to wrap the boy before they built him a crude tomb of rock. He wanted to ask questions about how and why men would do such a thing, but even as he thought them he guessed at the answers, and held his tongue. That there was evil in the world was no surprise to him, and that it could take forms unfamiliar to him was…inevitable, really. It was dusk by the time they had finished their sorrowful work, with the whole company searching around for enough rocks. While they were mounting up again, a thief came riding up, his horse panting and lathered.

"Ser Mario, the camp is ahead! I have seen their fires," the man informed them.

"Good," Ezio's uncle said.

It was not long before their group reached a hilltop overlooking Il Avvoltoio's camp. "All right. Get the scorpio parts out and start putting it together. Then gather round." The scorpio, a small catapult, was used like any trebuchet or siege weapon to fling missiles into the midst of the enemy, but it sacrificed load weight for higher accuracy. Whatever Mario planned to send into the enemy camp had to be comparatively small and light. And it had to be delivered soon, before it got too dark.

Ezio had a sudden sense of unease. "Uncle, is this how you're going to use whatever it was you got from Ginevra?"

"That's right," Mario opened his saddle bag and drew out a couple of jars of white powder.

Leonardo had told Ezio about a chemical that was very dangerous in its white form, something Ginevra had given him the formula for. "That isn't that white for…foss …us, I mean phosphorous, is it?" for

"This? No, nothing as harmful as that. This is mag-knee-see-um," Mario said, (at least that was what Ezio thought he said). "It's like gunpowder, only it burns brighter and it burns anywhere, even underwater. She showed me and told me all about it."

The powder in question was magnesium. Ginevra had demonstrated its more unusual properties for her spouse one rainy afternoon by burning a small strip of it. Mario had immediately seen a host of potential military uses for it. He had not shared these insights with her, nor told her he was taking any. If he had-'objected vociferously' would not be adequate to describe her reaction. She would have freaked.

"Gather 'round, now," Mario said to his band. "We can't have them noticing us up here, nor wait too late or the scorpio's useless to us, but I've something to say before the battle. There are those who would look at us and look at those marauders and ask: 'What's the difference? You're all killers and thieves.'

"But there is a difference, and what we've seen along the way defines it. Wolves and sheep farmers both enjoy a bit of mutton for their dinner, to say nothing of fleecing the flock now and then," he grinned at them, "but wolves have no care for the future, only for filling their bellies now, while the farmer looks after his own. They are the wolves, and we shall deal with them as any farmer deals with wolves-as swiftly as we can, without mercy nor quarter. Ladies, " he addressed the concubines, "you will be as angels of mercy to their injured-that is, with the most appropriate form of mercy. You know what I speak of."

"Sharp blades," said Donna Lucia, "and swift hands."

"And for us-you can see clearly enough that we are outnumbered. I have something here that will level the field. Ricardi! Where are you?" Mario looked around.

"Here," said one of the mercenaries.

"Excellent. Take these." The senior Assassin passed Ricardi the jars of magnesium. "Can you put them into one of their fires over there?"

The mercenary hefted the jars, tossing one in the air and catching it to test its weight. "On the first go, maybe. On the second, surely. You've only the two?"

"That is correct." Mario replied.

"Hmm. What are they? Gunpowder?"

"Not quite. Call it lightning powder. Now, everyone! Listen well. Once Ricardi lets fly, you turn your faces away! I mean that. You don't want to be looking straight at the spot, and just closing your eyes isn't enough. Don't look. It'll be like looking at the sun."

The first jar missed, but they heard, distantly, the sound of glass shattering and several people cursing. "Again!" Mario ordered.

Ricardi obeyed, and the evening forest flashed brilliantly white, like the sun touching down on the earth. Then came a deafening crack of thunder like a thousand storms all at once, and simultaneously all of Mario's people were knocked down as if by a giant's slap.

* * *

A/N: Magnesium is one of the most highly reactive and highly flammable elements on earth when in powdered or slivered form. In fact, it is so highly reactive and flammable that it will keep on burning in a pure nitrogen atmosphere, or in carbon dioxide, and when it comes into contact with water, it frees up the hydrogen in it, and hydrogen is one of the few elements that is even more flammable than magnesium. It's used in fireworks, emergency flares, and because it's very light and strong when in an alloy, in car parts and the aerospace industry, sometimes with disastrous effects. Also, as it burns, it emits LOTS of ultraviolet radiation, to the point where it can permanently damage the eyes.


	72. An Unrelated Event

A/N: I was remiss in not shouting out to Metal Butter and Noor last time. I got so excited about posting that I forgot. Thank you so much for your reviews. Now—on with the chapter.

* * *

Donna Caterina had used all the clean towels in the room. Annetta looked at the two she had left on the floor in a puddle of water, and said "You can go ahead and get in the bath, Signora Ginevra. I'll get more towels." Although she had to be waited on hand and foot while she was so ill, Donna Caterina seemed to expect the same treatment now that she was well again.

"Thank you—oh, wait a moment." Ginevra said, and stepped out of the stained riding habit. "Please tell Donna Vanna not to scrub her hands raw trying to get the blood out. She should just wash it and have the tailor dye it anew." That was the difference between the Auditore ladies and their visitor. _They _thought servants were people. If Signora Ginevra did expect a lot of you, she worked even harder herself—and she was strong! She could heft heavy pots of boiling soap which Annetta could barely shift.

Bundling up the soiled clothes and the wet towels, Annetta made her way to the laundry, where Donna Maria was talking to Vanna, the laundry woman. "So when was the last time Donna Ginevra asked you for clean rags?"

"Oh, she asks for them all the time! For filters, for cleaning up in her workroom, I don't know what all. But if you're asking what I think you're asking…" The laundress let the sentence trail off when she saw Annetta there, and Donna Maria bustled off.

Relaying the message about the riding habit and taking a stack of fresh towels, Annetta wandered back upstairs. The underlying question behind the question about clean rags lay in their commonest use—to absorb a woman's monthly flow. The implication was clear.

Was Signora Ginevra expecting a baby? Instead of going directly back with the towels, she stopped to turn down the bed in the master bedroom and freshen up the room. Signora Ginevra ought to rest after a day like this one. Consequently it was several minutes later before she knocked on the door and said, "Signora, I have the towels…. Signora?" Had her lady fallen asleep in the bath? Ginevra could not have finished, dressed and gone past her, not in so little time. She knocked again, paused and went in.

A scene out of nightmare met her eyes. From a sitting position, Ginevra had toppled forward into the tub and was facedown. The water was red—. "Signora! Signora Ginevra! Help, someone, help me! She's drowned!" Even as she screamed for help, Annetta was across the room, doing her best to haul Ginevra out of the bath, but she was naked, slippery, and heavier than she looked. The tub turned over, flooding the room with tainted water.

"What? What happened?" Donna Maria was there, thankfully, kneeling in the bloody water.

"I don't know, I went to fetch towels, and when I came back, her face was in the water, Madonna! Oh, is she dead? Say she isn't dead!"

Maria Auditore put her hand over Ginevra's heart. "No, God be praised, her heart beats strongly. Her nose is bleeding, though—and she does not breathe. Hold her up from the front. Yes, like that."

Annetta did so, and Maria joined her hands together just below Ginevra's breastbone, then jerked in and up suddenly with force. A gush of water spewed from her sister-in-law's mouth. She sputtered, and gasped in a breath, but did not wake. "Towels, please."

Claudia appeared at the door, her eyes huge. "Oh, no! Ginevra!"

"Claudia, get Marguerita and Chiara," her mother ordered. They had been Caterina's nurses, were now Ginevra's assistants. "Oh, never mind, there they are. Instead, send for the doctor—and the midwife."

"The midwife? Why-oh! I will!" She disappeared.

Maria turned back to the servants. "Get a blanket to wrap her in, and let us move her to a bed. No, not all the way downstairs in the big bed, just the nearest unoccupied room." As they lifted her, something fell to the floor with a metallic clink.

"Someone get that," Donna Maria ordered as they maneuvered the unconscious woman out the door. "Don't let her ring get lost."

Annetta retrieved the item. "It's not a ring. She's still wearing hers. It's—I don't know what it is." She squinted at the thing, which was a little silvery box with wires finer than hairs trailing from it. In fact, Leonardo himself would not have been able to identify it, because it was a datafeed uplink chip. Dr. Zeus had installed it in Ginevra's frontal lobe via her nasal cavity when she was still in childhood.

"Well," Maria said, after a glance at it. "put it somewhere safe, anyhow…" They were in one of the guestrooms, not one ready for use, but that hardly mattered. "Put her down, and drape the blanket so—someone get me a candle, please." When the light was at hand, Maria lifted the blanket up from Ginevra's feet, and bent her knees, looking upward.

"Oh, no—you don't think she lost the baby, did she? If there was a baby, that is, or that she—?" Annetta began, but did not finish. As the sister of a courtesan who was also the mistress of a brothel, she knew something of what a woman who did not want a baby might do, and Ginevra was an expert with potions and herbs. Until the child quickened in the womb—that is, until it could be felt to move—it was not considered a sin or a crime, because until then, who was to say for sure there really was a baby?

But Ginevra as a potential destroyer of unborn life was unthinkable, with all that Annetta knew of her, and anyhow, why would she? Everybody knew how delighted Ser Mario would be, and nobody who knew them would doubt its parentage. Considering his skill with weapons, nobody in their right minds would dare to express any doubts, even if they had them.

"No, I see no signs of bleeding here, nor of damage," Maria said, looking closely, "I think all the blood was due to the nosebleed. If she is with child, that would explain both that and her fainting. She is normally quite strong, but so much changes during pregnancy." She flipped the blanket down. "But I don't know how to tell if she is carrying or not. For that we need the midwife. If she is not, we need the doctor."

* * *

Again, an A/N: Yes, magnesium would produce one hella explosion under the right conditions. The first jar broke and spread the very fine powder around in the air, and over the stream they were camped by. (which I did not mention but should have) The second hit the fire and not only ignited itself, but the hydrogen released by the first dose of magnesium. The result: BOOM! Do not do this at home, kids! Lots of people have filmed their own experiments and posted them on Youtube, so you can check them out. Thanks again, Noor. Man, but I love science! I will get back to Ezio and Mario next chapter, never fear.

Also, I saw the new X-Men movie this weekend, and the sounds of my fannish squees have been resonating around the world, or at least around Washington DC. Go see it, if you're into the X-Men at all! My only regret is that now the Prof. X-Magneto slash fics will be proliferating like mushrooms after rain, and 99 percent of them will be bloody awful. I don't object to the content, but to the sheer compounded collective badness of the writing.


	73. A Filler Chapter With Shaun

The camera focuses on a Venetian island, where a lanky Brit in pale clothing is sipping a Bellini at a café table. "Ah. Greetings. This, of course, is Venice, alleged birthplace of Sigismundo Schiavoni, and more specifically, the island of Murano, the traditional home of the glassmakers. You see, the Venetians got tired of them setting everything on fire, and got the idea 'Hey, why don't we put them all on an island to themselves, so they can only set themselves on fire?'

"Venice has always had a talent for making the best of a situation, even if they created the situation in the first place. For example, in the late 1480s, Signora Ginevra Schiavoni Auditore, only daughter of the renowned doctor, who founded the Chymist's Guild using her father's formulae, wanted to order a large quantity of glassware, both for scientific use and as packaging for some of her guild's many wares. Upon being told the cost, she quite politely asked if they had forgotten the discount for bulk orders, and had she mentioned she planned to be a repeat customer?

"They replied that they had not. Their price was the only price, and she could take it or leave it.

"She opted to leave it. With a very important house guest at home (Leonardo Da Vinci), contractors at work on the expansion of Monteriggioni, and a husband who was off on a contract to defend the Valle d'Aosta from the French , loitering in Venice to dicker was out of the question. Venice collectively shrugged, and went about their business. They were the only source of high-quality glass, and if she really wanted it, she would be back.

"They failed to take into consideration that lady's resourcefulness. Some time later, Venice was shocked to learn that Monteriggioni had entered the glassmaking business and was turning out products the equal of theirs. Firing off a letter to the Signora, they demanded an explanation. This was industrial espionage, they claimed, and she had to have suborned someone.

"She replied that no, she hadn't. Her late father had been Venetian, a younger son of some branch or other of the Schiavonis, and she had discovered the formula for Venetian glass among his notes, and she had therefore inherited it. She could only assume he had descended from a glassblower's family on his mother's side.

"It was a plausible explanation as explanations went—glassblower's daughters were legally entitled to marry up, and by Venetian custom, only the eldest son and eldest daughter of each family married. The younger daughters were sent in to convents whether they wanted to go or not, and the younger sons were turned out to fend for themselves, a recipe for trouble.

"Nevertheless, the Venetian Council of Ten insisted that Monteriggioni cease glass production immediately. In return, they promised a substantial family discount on all glass goods in perpetuity.

"Her reply was that she was sorry, but it was out of her hands. The glassworks was independently owned and operated, even if she had provided the formula and the Auditore Bank had advanced them the money.

"After several more increasingly irritated exchanges, the Ten voted to declare her an Enemy of The Republic. It was, in other words, now open season on Ginevra Schiavoni Auditore. The Republic wanted her dead. Except that it didn't work. No slouch at having people bumped off, Venice found itself at a loss when it came to the Signora of Monteriggioni. They tried poison in several forms, including candy sent to her in her nephew's name and in the lining of a pair of gloves. Nothing worked—perhaps it was a mistake to try poisoning the daughter of a physician known for unusual cures.

"Neither could they find an assassin willing or able to get the job done, and at the time, all their condottiere were busy fighting the Turks. It would have been unwise to declare war on Monteriggioni in any case, as it was impregnable and her husband, Signor Mario Auditore, was a formidable condottiere reputed never to have lost a battle, and known to be quite fond of his wife. The Council was stumped—until someone brought back samples of a new type of glass from Monteriggioni, glass much sturdier than Venice was making, sturdy enough that it didn't necessarily break when dropped and could even be used as bakeware.

"This secret was too important, too valuable for Venice not to have it, but whatever she might say, Ginevra Auditore was in charge of the glassworks, and they had condemned her in absentia. (Not that she paid it the slightest attention.) What to do? Her people were ferociously loyal and refused to divulge it.

"'What if,' some particularly sapient Councilmember posited, 'instead of an Enemy of the Republic, she was declared a Daughter of the Republic? And we reunited her with her father's family?' After a certain amount of internecine warfare, they agreed to adopt this approach, throwing in a diamond necklace to smooth over any hard feelings.

"It must have been a very impressive necklace, because she was willing to accept their metaphoric olive branch and share the formula. In their turn, the Venetians accepted the Monteriggioni glassmakers as a distant branch, and everyone went back to doing what they did best, which was make money. The problem was, while they found a branch of the Schaivonis willing to accept her, neither their family tree nor DNA tests support their claims..."

Excerpt from Episode One of BBC's Faces of the Renaissance series: Doctor, Alchemist, and Mystery: Who Was Sigismundo Schiavoni?

* * *

A/N: Yeah, as the chapter title says, this is a filler chapter. Got stuck and am frustrated. I spent the weekend at the Bram Stoker Awards with a friend, and I was dressed completely wrong. Nobody told me (and I didn't guess) that everybody female there would be dressed in a semi-Goth fashion, or that the banquet was semi-formal. So I showed up in happy sunny colored casual clothes and spent three days in an agony of self-consciousness—without computer access, either. So….thanks for putting up with another one of these.

Noor, you are right. There will be good coming out of the X-men story boom, and perhaps it will even inspire me to write more too.

Oh, yeah, and everyone who has not yet seen it should DEFINITELY rent the movie Dangerous Beauty, which is about the life of a _real_ Venetian courtesan, Veronica Franco, who lived about a hundred years after Ezio visited. It is R-rated for sexy reasons but players of AC should be able to cope with that. It did a great deal to cheer me up today.


	74. This Just Can't Be Good

Blind and deaf and unable to move…Ezio wasn't sure which way was up for a moment. It felt as though he were lying face down under a heavy load of hay, but then he realized he was lying on his back, and the 'weight' was the ground underneath him. Shifting his perception to Eagle Vision, where everything sounded as though he was underwater anyway, he pulled himself to his feet with the aid of a tree trunk.

Around him, his allies shimmered blue—which way was the bandit camp? He turned his head in the direction he thought it was—and it was difficult to make out. In Eagle Vision , flames burned white and black, but there, some had cores of red—oh. It was people on fire. No, _enemies_ on fire, enemies who consumed women and children like so many pieces of fruit.

Reverting to his normal senses, Ezio found that although afterimages still swam in his eyes and his ears were ringing, he could see and hear well enough to tell that the bandits were much worse off. Everything seemed to be blazing, with great fireballs swelling up and bursting. There was a lot of screaming over the noise of the fire itself, popping and crackling.

"All right! Perhaps I used a bit much, but there are more of them coming from behind. Pull yourselves together, and attack before they can regroup!" Mario roared, and took off down the slope. Ezio followed, although there was no clear path anymore. Tree limbs, shredded tents-the former fire pit, center of the explosion, was a smoking crater, and the creek was on fire, seething and burning white-hot, too bright to look at. A bandit staggered into his path, howling and clawing at his eyes, and Ezio ran him through. Ahead of him, Mario dodged a fireball, disappeared into the woods.

By then at least two thirds of the mercenaries had joined them. The battle that followed was disorganized, owing to the fire and the pockets of magnesium powder that flared up at unexpected moments, and so many of the bandits were partly incapacitated that the courtesans had their hands full bestowing 'mercy'. Separated from the rest of the group by the vagaries of fighting, Ezio found himself alone amid corpses in the bloody, burning trees.

"Uncle? Uncle Mario?" he called. "Where are you?" The sound of metal on metal came from somewhere further into the woods, and he headed toward that, because he knew his family well. "Uncle?" he repeated himself.

"Busy here!" Mario roared back. _Clunk! _

Near a once-grand tent of yellow and white striped silk, weather beaten and filthy now, his uncle and a bald bulky man circled one another. The man's gaudy brocade doublet was rent and slashed in half a dozen places. "This is the Vulture?" Ezio asked.

"Yes, and... he is..MINE!" Mario gritted out. The bandit chief wielded a heavy war hammer, slow and clumsy but powerful, while Mario had his favorite sword, a middle weight blade of watered steel, razor edged but delivering little in the way of blunt force. The hammer's longer shaft meant that the Asssassin had to dodge and dart around it, landing quick hits that were gradually slicing Il Avvoltoio into gory ribbons, but one hammer blow, if it landed in the wrong place...

As Ezio watched, his uncle feinted low, came in high, aiming to create a wound above the bandit's eyes, intending to blind him with his own blood-but as he did, the Vulture brought the hammer around, striking Mario in the head with a sickening_ Chonk! _

Ezio's shouted "No!" came in chorus with the bandit's exultant, "Ha!", as Mario staggered, stumbled, and cursed. "Merde, that _hurt_!"

It might have hurt, but it wasn't enough to stop the elder Auditore. He had his sword up to block the hammer as Il Avvoltoio came in for another blow, yelling, "Why don't you lay down and die? What do I have to do to kill you?"

"You- -will- - never- -know!" Mario responded as he skewered the bandit through the throat. It was a messy death, the blood coming out in spurts. Mario sagged to the ground, pulling off a glove and reaching up to gingerly feel the edges of his own wound. "Scalp wounds always bleed like el Diavolo. Is he dead?"

"Yes, Uncle," _What am I going to tell Ginevra if he dies?_

"Then say the words for him before you take his head off. Neatly, mind."

"I will. Stay still there. Don't move."

"Don't worry. I won't. I may not move ever again." his uncle said with a touch of his usual humor.

Bending over the Vulture, Ezio said, "You named yourself for a carrion bird, and now you yourself are carrion. What you reap, you also sow. Requiescat in pace." He closed the man's eyes, then swiftly cut off his head, wrapping it in the gaudy doublet.

"You'll have to pack it in salt or pickle it in brandy," his uncle instructed. "Good thing the worst heat of the year has passed, eh? Now… tell me, how bad is it? Are my brains leaking out?"

He meant his head wound. Ezio peered down at the gore clotting the torn scalp, and did a double take. "I'll have to wash it. Wait here." A quick reconnaissance of the late Vulture's tent, and he found a bottle of rather vinegary wine. "Hold still," he told Mario, letting the wind trickle over the flap of skin.

Mario flinched a little, licking his lips when the wine poured down his face. "Horse pipi, " he complained. "Not what I would have chosen for my last drink in this world."

"It's not going to be your last drink in this world," Ezio predicted, using his dagger to tear a strip off his shirt and binding the scalp back into place. "Nothing is broken but the skin. If you aren't dead already, you won't be. Uncle, I think your bones have grown to be-as tough as Ginevra's." What he saw, that which had made him do a double take, had been a sheen under the blood that owed little to wetness and much to ferroceramic. The Shroud could not duplicate all the secondary systems installed in Ginevra, such as the temporal field that meant her brain was always a split second ahead in time, but converting skeletal cell walls to something more durable had been relatively easy.

"Is that so?" Mario reached up to pat his makeshift bandage. "But I've known men who've taken a knock not as bad as this, who walked away only to die in their sleep. Bleeding in the brain, the dottores said."

"If a cinquedea is not enough to kill me, can a hammer be enough to kill you?"

"Perhaps not." Mario said, thoughtfully. "Thank you, nipote."

"It was nothing." He helped his uncle to his feet. "We_ are_ family."

"Yes. Now, time for the cleaning up..."

Once all the bandits were dead, once the fires were out, once the hidden loot had been recovered and divvyed up, the Auditores' share came out to a mule-load of silver coins and other valuables, four horses, and a cart of dubious weaponry, which if it were good for nothing else, could be melted down for scrap. The mercenaries would take it back to Monteriggioni, as the Assassins were still on the trail of the Shroud. The thieves and courtesans, well paid and happy, were heading home.

Ezio looked over the devastation by the light of several torches. "That magnesium powder makes a terrible weapon," he observed.

"Just a moment, I'm writing a few lines to your sister as to how I want this invested. There's a parcel of land I've had my eye on…Yes, it is fierce and terrible," Mario agreed. "Too terrible to ever be used? There is no such thing as a weapon too terrible ever to be used again. Have you not studied the history of war? First they said that of longbows, then of crossbows, then of gunpowder and cannon. More will come. Worse than that—,"

He took a moment to collect his thoughts. "Worse than that, it makes of one's enemy something less than human, when you possess the power to kill so many without looking them in the face."

"Do you plan on using it again?" the younger Assassin asked.

"It will happen." Mario said. "What is Monteriggioni but an outpost of defense between Siena and Firenze? It had no other purpose but as a fortress. How do you think our little town has kept peaceful all these years? Because we have nothing anyone wanted—until now.

"Now we are making things everyone never knew they needed, and in the process making what everyone needs—money. How long before they come, like the man who had a goose that laid golden eggs, to kill us and open us up to lay our innards open and steal our secret? They won't get anything more out of us after that, but they don't know that.

"Why do you think I was asking you about antigravity, and how it might be used to defend our town? Because we will need defenses, and offensive weapons too."

"Who do you fear, Uncle?" Ezio asked. "The Medici are our friends, the Templars too few to besiege the entire town, and the Spaniard's star is not yet ascendant. Borgia is not yet Pope, and who knows if he really will gain the throne of St. Peter?"

"Lorenzo is our friend. His sons might not be. And—well, I am preparing for the future. Fortune is depicted with hair in front and bald behind, because there's no use tearing at her to make her stay. Talk to me again in a year, or five, or twenty. For today—there is still the bounty on Avvoltoio to collect, in three different cities, and the Shroud to find. Get some rest, Ezio, for we'll be back on the trail in the morning."

* * *

Giovanni and Cesare stood just on the threshold of their papa's studiolo, neither wanting to be the first to enter. They were strictly forbidden to enter the room unless their father called for them, and when he did, it was usually to mete out punishment. Despite that, the studiolo drew them like honey drew ants. There were just so many wonderful things in it-jeweled reliquaries with dubious bits of various saints in them, branches of scarlet coral, ostrich eggs, a unicorn's horn, statuettes carved out of ivory, books with colored pictures, and so much more. If it was rare, if it was expensive, if it could emphasize the Borgia wealth and enhance Rodrigo's reputation as a man of taste and learning, it was in there. And this was only the villa where he housed his mistress and children. The collection at his official residence was ten times more impressive.

This, however, was the only studiolo they had ever seen, so its relative austerity was lost on them. All they knew was that they wanted in..if they could only work up the courage. Even though Papa was miles and miles away, even though he would never know-. "You go first! You're oldest!"

"Uh-uh, it was your idea!" Giovanni shoved Cesare, and the whole idea nearly died right there, but they remembered in time that they had to be quiet, and anyhow, the tussle carried them through the door and into the room. At first, they moved around on tip-toe, barely scuffing the carpets, but then Cesare found the dish of candy on their father's desk filled with manus christi, hard sugar drops flavored with rosewater and covered in gold leaf. After stuffing several of these into their mouthes, they went back to exploring. Young, rambunctious, and full of refined sugar, they soon went from cautious to raucous.

Finding a set of gilded drinking horns on a shelf, Cesare snatched them up, held them to his head like a bull, snorted, pawed the ground and started chasing his brother around the room. Giovanni, while running away, tripped and fell, cutting his chin on the sharp corner of their father's desk and biting his tongue badly. Being only four, he began to wail.

"Shhhhh—shhh! Don't—oh, don't bleed there!" Cesare commanded, looking at the priceless carpet. Looking around the room for some fabric that wasn't heavily embroidered, sewn with pearls or woven with gold and silver thread, he saw nothing. Nothing but a parcel on Papa's desk, its paper torn to reveal plain whitish cloth inside. Reaching for it, he ripped off the rest of the wrapper, pressing the fabric, which felt like linen, to the dripping cut.

"Owww!" Giovanni began, but…

…the cloth spoke up. ***Scanning. Remain quiescent. Function will be restored.***


	75. Yes And Yes And Yes

The Assassins' Archives, Misc. Correspondence, 1480-1490, Document 11:

From the old Fox to the old Eagle, greetings. In your absence, the Bull has come sniffing and pawing the ground around your aerie, hunting for the Red Crested Hawk your young Eagle carried off. Your nest is unharmed, old friend, since that the Cat you keep spooked him and wrecked his cart, or so I am told. The Hawk has taken flight to a Thicket of Laurel Trees wherein the Bull cannot enter, and she may fly from Tree to Tree in avoidance of him.

The account of how you slew the Vulture spreads; most bravely and well done. I do not seek to dissuade you from your quest, but the trail cools and the year cools, and no new rumors have come to my ears as to the whereabouts of IT.

If you have not yet found that which we seek upon the time you read this, it would be best that you return to your aerie before the winter storms catch you. A Cat, after all, may look at a King, and for all I know, she scared him off by putting out her claws and hissing at him, but there is more you do not know of. The Mother Eagle believes there will be a little Gryphon hatching out come the spring; given our last conversation, you may well want to know the truth of it.

Yours in Brotherhood, the old Fox.

* * *

Mario rode alone along a road that lead through his olive groves, heavy now with green and purple fruit. Olives were the last fruits to be gathered, and since they were useful for different purposes at different stages of development, the harvest could go on through January, if the snows held off. Even now, some of his tenant farmers were pruning the laden branches, dropping the twigs and fruit into large squares of cloth. Catching sight of him, they paused in their labors to wave enthusiastically at him, calling out something he couldn't quite make out. Waving back, he called back, "Good harvest! Well done!"

He and Ezio had left Monteriggioni in early October, when Autumn was at the height of her golden beauty. Now it was mid November, when the year had settled down into a mellower more mature aspect, and Ezio was on his way back to Venezia.

They had not found the Shroud. From Agnadello, they traced the thief, (not a Guild thief, but a servant at the villa where it had been hidden) to the port of Livorno, the second biggest city in Tuscany, after Firenze. There the trail went dead, as dead as the servant, whose body had been fished out of the harbor, throat cut and pockets emptied. It seemed likely the Shroud had been taken on board one of the ships, but which one, and where had it gone?

After a fruitless, frustrating week, Mario received an encrypted message from La Volpe at the letter drop there. Once decrypted, it was hardly less cryptic than before. He was the old Eagle, Ezio the young one, and Maria, the Mother Eagle. The Bull was Borgia, taken from his family crest, and the Red Crested Hawk was none other than Caterina Sforza. 'Laurel' meant Lorenzo, a pun upon his name, and Ginevra, the Cat, but what was this business about a grifone?

The allusion to a Gryphon, a mythical creature which was half lion and half eagle, passed him by entirely, not because he didn't know what it was, but because he simply didn't make the connection. He was more concerned about what his wife might have done to the Spaniard, and what repercussions it would bring.

As worrisome as the message was, it was welcome too. Who would want to be caught away from home when the weather changed, making the roads impassable for weeks? And…the truth was, he missed Ginevra acutely. He had sent her a few letters, but because the drops were few and far between and they were not stopping anywhere for long, she could not write back. The system was meant only for short, urgent messages, sent in code.

Moreover, as much as he tried to express on paper what he cherished about her in his heart, his letters had turned out more businesslike than lover-like. He wanted to write words that would make her tremble, that would make her burn, yet for all the happiness their union gave him, it could not make him a poet any more than it could make him, with his terrible singing voice, a troubadour. He hadn't even been able to give her that brooch for a wedding gift directly, but sent Ezio to act as his proxy. A sanguine man by nature rather than melancholic, laughter, quips and ribaldry had always come to him more readily than brooding and passionate declarations.

When they were together, talking about how he felt was superfluous. He was too busy living it. Wending down the road, he looked up to the towers of his town and smiled. He would be home so soon. He urged his horse to pick up his pace, riding now through fields of stubble, passing the new herb garden his sister-in-law had designed, its plots of lavender and rosemary looking pitiful now, waiting for the coming year.

Upon reaching the gates, he reined in, dismounted, and stabled his beast, not forgetting the bag of reward money from the bounties on the Vulture. It was enough to buy a good sized villa and lands, which was what he meant to do with it. He sniffed the air as he walked into his town. This was the time of year when pigs were slaughtered and the meat cured against the coming lean months, and almost everyone had their own secrets and recipes for sausage and ham. At the villa, they used vine clippings to give the smoked meat a hint of fruit flavor. Delicious! Meals on the road had lacked something, and that something was taste and digestibility.

A couple of townspeople greeted him as he rounded the corner to the main street, and he returned their hellos, wondering where the extra note of good cheer in their welcome came from. He knew he was well-liked, but there was a special enthusiasm when they spoke to him. But the line of customers waiting in front of the apothecary put that from his mind, as the next patron stepped up and announced, "I am steward to Her Grace the Duchess of Urbino, and she requires fifty cakes of soap, ten bottles of lotion, ten packets of matches, and the largest bottle of vaniglia essence you sell."

"Yes, sir," the dottore said, cheerfully, "Yet I must tell you that the large size bottle of vaniglia is two hundred florins, and payment must be cash-in-hand..."

From the look of things, the art merchant had settled in well, while the second story over the blacksmith's was still a work in progress...why was that cluster of women whispering and giggling behind their hands as he went past? He waved and called "Buon Giornio, good madonnas," to them, and they returned it.

What was going on in his town? Nothing malicious, he would have sensed that. Mounting the steps to his family home, he found a smile starting on his face and broadening until his cheeks nearly hurt. It had been so long, too long, since he had last seen and held his best beloved, his Ginevra. Calling out, "I'm home. Where is everybody?" as he crossed the threshold, he was surprised by his niece, who popped out of the office to give him a quick hug.

"Uncle!" she said, "Welcome back."

"Ah, Claudia. How well you look!" he complimented her, because she did. She was even smiling.

"Thank you. So do you. Is Ezio with you?"

"No, I'm sorry. He and I parted four days ago, and by now he should be almost to Venezia once more. Where are your mother and Ginevra?"

"Upstairs going through the furniture storage. You should go up right away-Ginevra has been missing you sorely." Claudia scolded him.

"I'm on my way," he promised, crossing the hall and heading up the stairs. The old odds and ends of household goods were kept on the third floor where most of the bedrooms were.

The door stood open, and he could hear his sister-in-law say, as he approached, "We took it to Firenze with us when we first brought Federico home, and I don't recall that we ever returned it. God alone knows what became of it when we left the townhouse-but it was old and rickety anyway. We shall have to have a new one made."

"A new one of what?" he asked, stepping inside. "Where's my Micina-? Oof!" The last exclamation was because his wife threw herself at him with some force, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his chest.

"Mario," she mumbled into his doublet.

"That is what I call a welcome," he said, holding her tight in return and lifting her off her feet until their faces were on a level with each other. "Ah, let me look at you." She was as lovely as ever to his eyes, or perhaps even more so, for her skin, always fine, was radiant. She had on the spinach green and clay red dress and her pearls, but with a new pendant on the strand, a medal of Saint Margaret with her dragon, set with an emerald.

"Careful with her!" Maria scolded, then smiled. "It's good to see you again, brother. I will let Ginevra answer that question, and see the two of you downstairs later.

"What's going on, sweetheart?" he asked, settling down on an old chair, with her on his lap.

"I-it's hard to explain," she said, blushing a little. "not to mention unbelievable. Have you faith in my honesty? Answer truly, now. Do not just say 'yes' as a matter of form."

He paused a moment. "Micina, I believe you would tear out your own bones if someone you loved needed them...Is this about whatever happened with Borgia?"

"You know about that?-That can wait for later. No, it isn't. You see, there is something I didn't tell you, and I can only hope the good news that follows will make up for my omission. The medicine I gave you not only fixed your eye; it fixed your palle. I...would have told you ere this, but I was afraid, knowing how you long for children- -."

"Michina," he interrupted, not bothering to think about the implications as yet, "you are-Having you for a wife and asking for more would be like a man who shits florins complaining that diamonds don't come out when he makes pipi as well." There, the perfect moment to say what he had wanted to say, and what came out of his mouth? Filth.

However, Ginevra took it in stride. She giggled in appreciation, and her eyes were dancing. "Ouch! Best prepare yourself for some very valuable but very nasty kidney stones, then. The medicine fixed you, and-the Shroud somehow fixed me."

The light was beginning to dawn. "Micina...what are you saying?"

"I'm...incinta.", she said, and waited.

"You're going to have a baby."

"Yes. In mid-May."

"_My_ baby." he stated.

"Yes. Your son. Yours and mine." she affirmed.

"I'm going to be a papa? Da vero?"

"Yes, and I'm going to be a mama. Yes and yes and yes." Her eyes were not just sparkling, they were dripping tears while she smiled. "Maria knew before I did. I didn't believe it, but then I ran diagnostics, that is, self-tests. I've run them every day since then, sometimes more. You're lucky you weren't here when I was most frightened that my body would reject him, and I would miscarry, but the first trimester, the first three months are over, and there is much less danger. He's not even the size of a mouse yet, but he's developing just as he should..."

"I'm going to be a papa," he repeated, tightening his hug and kissing her thoroughly. "Ah, I knew it!" His face was wet too, and not only with her transferred tears. "Did I not say it was impossible that we should love as we do and nothing come of it?"

"You said something of the kind, yes."

"And with you for a mother-oh, what a warrior he'll be! Oh!" He loosened his hold on her. "I'm not going to hurt the two of you like this, am I?"

"No. It probably wouldn't be good for me to go for a gallop all the way to Firenze on a fresh horse, but I can do almost anything else without fear of dislodging him.."

"Bene, bene-," He took a deep breath, tried to frame what he wanted to tell her. "This is the happiest time of my life. I am more happy now than I have ever been, and it is thanks to you. I love you, and I could more easily divert the Arno from its course than say how much."

"That's funny," she smiled, touching his face. "That's what I was going to say. Just remember this moment when he's fifteen years old and giving us hell."

* * *

A/N: Incinta, of course, means pregnant. Happy Fourth of July, everyone! Hope you enjoyed this revelation... I am so far behind on replies (again) that I can only plead for a holiday amnesty. Thanks, Noor, I wanted to get some blood and plot in before I jumped the story forward. What will happen with the Borgia brothers? Wait and see. Giovanni might have got the first dose, but boys are prone to boo-boos and Cesare will be infected with nanites as well. The significance of the pendant Ginevra is wearing, with St. Margaret on it, comes from the saint's role as the protector of women in pregnancy and childbirth. And Tuscany did indeed get snow. (In Brotherhood, Mario and Ezio return on a January 1st which looks more like July.) Piero de Medici once called on Michelangelo to build them a snowman in the family courtyard, which he could hardly do without snow! Bet it was the most awesome snowman in the world...


	76. So What Exactly Did Caterina Do?

The Assassins' Archives, Misc. Correspondence, 1480-1490, Document 19:

Dear Ezio;

You need not think, dear brother, that just because you've been off with Uncle beheading bandit chiefs that we haven't been busy here, because we have. Ginevra finished compiling her father's manuscript for the printers, and since it didn't make sense to send the only copy, we (that is, Mother, Ginevra, and I) spent two weeks copying it. Twice. One copy was for Lorenzo and one was for the printer. Lorenzo says it is the foremost book of the modern world, and more importantly, that the first copies should be ready by Christmas. He says he will send a copy to everyone he knows.

But that isn't the big news, and this news is very big. We're going to have a new cousin! It's true. Both the midwife and the dottore have confirmed it; Ginevra is expecting a baby. They say it will arrive in May.

You cannot imagine the excitement this has caused in Monteriggioni. Everyone is very glad, of course, but they all have some advice on what she should do to ensure that she has a healthy boy. If Ginevra isn't there, then they tell me so I can pass it along to her. If it keeps up like this for the next six months, I will go mad! I don't even know why they're telling _me_. Aren't I a maiden of tender years and delicate sensibilities?

I can hear you saying 'You?' and laughing your head off even as I write those words, so I send you a big punch in the stomach in return. Uncle is, of course, the proudest father-to-be in the world, despite the jokes his men make about this late-in-life child, but that is because they are actually very proud of him too. I guess that as their leader, his prowess, military or otherwise, reflects on them, and I can't believe I just wrote that! Ugh!

I think the only way Mother could be happier about the baby is if it were her own grandchild and not her niece or nephew. With Mother being so much older than Ginevra, it really is more like she is there in place of Ginevra's own mother. Anyhow, it turns out that our old cradle was the family cradle from the villa, and it's probably kindling now like the rest of the furniture from the townhouse. Mother said the worms had eaten it almost to pieces and we would need a new one anyway, so she is having the local carpenter make a new one. As a surprise for Ginevra, she plans to have it sent to Firenze so that painter fellow Ghirlandaio can decorate it. Speaking of surprises from Firenze, when Donna Clarice heard that Ginevra was expecting, she sent her a lovely medallion of St. Margaret set with a fine emerald, to protect her and her baby.

For my part, I'm going through all the old baby clothes and toys to see what's still good and what will have to be replaced, which is mostly everything since it's all more than fifty years old. The tailor has most of what we'll need, but since you're in Venezia, do you think you could hunt down a piece of really fine lace for the christening gown? I will pay you back, of course.

Now Uncle, who is sitting across the room, wants me to tell you ( I don't know why he can't pick up a pen and write to you himself instead of making _me_ do it) that he has not forgotten the person who made his present happiness possible by introducing him to Ginevra, which is to say, you. He has rewritten his will to reflect his changed circumstances, and in it he makes provision for you, our mother and me.

You will be affected most by this change, so he is leaving to you the estate he is buying not far from here. It has extensive plantings of olive trees and vines, but the present owner is an imbecile of a gentleman farmer who doesn't know that olives prefer lean soil to rich, and so he kept on fertilizing and fertilizing until the trees got sickly, so Uncle can now pick it up at a bargain. It will be a few years of careful husbandry before it's yielding well again, but the land also has a castello and a village, so when you marry, you will have a home of your own. And now I refuse to write another word from Uncle Mario!

Concerning town business, I think it would be profitable if we could bring a coppersmith into the town as you did the tailor and the art merchant, one who also works in brass and bronze, by preference. Ginevra bought some distillery equipment in Firenze with copper tubing coils but the business is expanding so rapidly that we'll need more and if something breaks it could be days or weeks until we could get it repaired. Our blacksmith won't handle copper, he says it's too soft. So if you come across someone who might do, keep our needs in mind.

To close this letter, I will write a few lines about Caterina, who asked to be remembered to you as she left. I don't know if you love her or not, and it's none of my business either way. If you have thoughts of marrying her, well, Uncle and Mother both have their reasons for thinking it a bad match. If that is how your thoughts are turning, Ezio, I must tell you that while I like Caterina, I wouldn't want to live with her permanently. She's kind of exhausting. I don't think she would want to live with us permanently either. I think she finds us just as exhausting, only in a different way. If she is the lady of your heart, though, I will gladly help prepare the castello on the lands Uncle is buying so you and she can be comfortable there.

Having written all of that in a way my old composition teacher would have approved of, now I want to say this: Ezio, if you bring Caterina home to live among us at Monteriggioni as your wife, I will set fire to the villa. I mean it, too.

Your loving sister,

Claudia

PS: Remember, a large piece of fine lace, and a coppersmith.

PPS: I really do mean it. I will burn the villa down.

PPPS: No, I'm not going to explain why.

* * *

A/N: I meant this to be a chapter from Ginevra's POV dealing with her pregnancy and going right to the birth, but somehow it seemed rushed, so I fooled around a bit and this letter happened. Thanks, Noor! I like to think I nailed that scene just about right.


End file.
